


We All Want Things

by sinspiration



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, older Damian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7593706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinspiration/pseuds/sinspiration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, eventually, Damian and Tim’s relationship gets better. Ra’s accidentally helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See ending notes for further warnings.

The first time was less than unexpected, considering the army of ninja that had just been defeated. Damian cornered him later in the week, when Tim was feeling better, but was still confined to the mansion.

Cornered was, perhaps, the wrong word, considering that Damian was ten, and tiny, and looked like a hissing cat. Any other kid and it might have been cute.

Then again, any other kid wasn’t an ex-assassin wearing a Robin suit.

“Drake. What does grandfather want with you?” The words were angry. Accusatory. As if how  _dare_  Tim garner the attention of an Al Ghul.

Tim shrugged and didn’t look at Damian. Looking still hurt. “Pretty sure he wants me dead, Damian.”

Damian sneered and stalked away.

 

—-

 

The second time was a few months later. Cassandra and Dick had talked.

Damian had appeared suddenly while Tim was patrolling. Unable to disdainfully use Tim’s last name, he just stood there and glared.

“Where’s Batman,” Tim asked, wary.

“Tt. Monitering.”

And he wasn’t going to get more then that. Fine. “What is it. Robin.”

Damian’s lip curled. “What does Grandfather want with  _you_?” It wasn’t hard to guess what he meant.

Tim let out a bitter laugh. “Wish I knew. I’d have it removed.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent. Tim had nothing to add, so he just left. He didn’t need this.

He felt Damian’s eyes on him, left alone and so small on the rooftop, watching as he flew.

 

—-

 

It was a year later when Ra’s decided to loudly remind Tim that he hadn’t been forgotten. And if Tim was honest, the fact that he was surviving the month was a little surprising. Constant, brutal attacks twisted with puzzles wore him down too quickly. By the third week, sleep deprived, wired on adrenaline and paranoia, and battered, he gave up and retreated to the cave.

At least if he was attacked here, he thought, as he dropped onto a gurney, there would be a greater buffer zone than his apartment had. There was only so  _much_  security one could stuff into a building that had other tenants.

He woke up to the sound of a body falling heavily to the floor, and jerked upright to see Damian glaring at him. Tim’s first instinct was to glance down at the felled assassin.

“She’s  _breathing_ ,” Damian snapped, sounding insulted and just this side of mulish. “And you’re  _welcome_ , Drake. Don’t expect it again.”

“Thanks, Damian,” he said tiredly, scrubbing at his face. “Where’s—“

“Out,” Damian spat. “A function. I wasn’t required to attend.”

Tim nodded, then blinked. “You’re in uniform.”

“Tt. How astute. I was training.”

“…here?”

Damian rolled his eyes and turned away, grabbing the assassin’s leg to drag her out of the cave.

Tim shook his head to clear it. He’d gotten an hour of sleep, and that would have to be good enough. But that he’d  _gotten_  that hour…

Damian’s uniforms were kept down here. And he’d been training. Meaning that Damian and come to the cave, found Tim sleeping, and had made a conscious effort to be silent.

Well. Maybe he looked at it as training. Certainly it hadn’t been for Tim’s benefit.

Damian returned, holding a white piece of fabric between two fingers, nose wrinkled in distaste. “She was carrying this,” he said, dropping it into Tim’s lap. “I  _assume_  it’s for you.”

Gauntlets on, Tim gingerly unfolded the fabric. It was a linen handkerchief. Two opposing corners were embroidered, a different monogram for each. RAG in the top left, a simple T in the bottom right.

He stared at it, eyes wide, before snarling and crumpling it into a ball and throwing it in the trash. Damian’s eyes tracked its path.

“What does he  _want_  with you?” the words were hissed, angry. Hurt.

Tim let out a hiss of his own. “He just wants to play with his food.”

 

—-

 

On Tim’s twenty-first birthday, two beautifully wrapped bottles of wine arrived addressed to him, sent anonymously. Suspicious, Tim immediately ran them through every test he could at his apartment, and when that didn’t allay his suspicions, he took them to the cave for a full analysis. Bruce and Damian were there training; both paused to nod in greeting, then let him work.

Many tests later revealed that neither bottle’s contents were harmful, but that the bottles themselves were deadly. Somehow the wine inside remained untainted, and Tim didn’t really care that it did. He disposed of the ‘gift’ like the hazardous waste it was and went back to his apartment.

He arrived to the security disabled, and an open bottle of wine on his kitchen table, two crystal glasses next to it. One was filled with the same wine from the bottle.  The other glass had just a few shimmering droplets in it, as if it had already been toasted and drained.

Tim stepped warily up to the table. A small white card hung from the bottle’s neck. He read it without touching it.

_Happy birthday, Detective._

He scowled, bagged the bottle and glasses, and left them on the table to deal with later while he went to get his laptop. This was ridiculous, and it had gone on much too long.

Several hours later, however, he was no closer to a solution, and he was tired, annoyed, and  _frustrated_. Okay, yes, he’d managed to be a thorn in Ra’s Al Ghul’s side. But he was pretty sure other people had done that in the past, and least  _some_  of them had to survive it.

Right?

He was sick and tired of being worthy of the Demon Head’s attention.

The doorbell rang, and Tim started in surprise; it was rare that he got visitors at his front door, especially recently. A glance at the video monitor he’d installed and then he was getting up to let in a glaring Damian, dressed in jeans and a hoodie. He was carrying a small white box, and this he thrust into Tim’s arms.

“Pennyworth sent me,” he sniffed. “This is for you. He expects you to make an appearance this evening as well.”

Tim stared down at the box in his hands. “Uh, thanks, Damian.” He paused. “Do you want to come in for a minute?”

“Tt. If I must.”

If Damian really wanted to leave, he’d go, so Tim figured there had to be a reason that he was willing to stick around. He watched Damian catalogue every inch of the apartment he could see, then shrugged and went to the kitchen to open the box. Damian followed him in, stopping short when he caught sight of the hazmat bags on the table.

Tim didn’t even glance up from the beautiful little cake in the box. “Another gift,” he said flatly. “I like Alfred’s much better.”

Damian stepped closer. “More wine?”

“Mm-hm. And it even had a note this time. I believe it was a congratulations that I survived another birthday.”

The teen’s entire face darkened. “Drake. I wish to borrow your computer.”

Tim rolled his eyes. Even at fourteen, Damian was as royal as he’d been at ten. “That’s great.”

“Tt.  _May_  I,” he gritted out, after a moment. “Please.”

Tim set the box on the counter and went to grab one of his more disposable models. He handed it to Damian, who took it with a nod and sat down, pulling a chair next to his; an obvious invitation-demand. Tim dropped into it and watched with curiosity as Damian opened several programs, along with the internet browser.

He worked silently for several minutes. “Drake, I assume this computer has a camera and speakers.”

“They’re built in,” Tim replied. He didn’t ask what Damian was doing.

“Good.” And suddenly a video screen was open, a man with glasses staring back at them.

Damian barked something rapidly in Arabic, along with what sounded suspiciously like both his and Tim’s full names. The man disappeared, the screen showing black.

Tim was patient, and waited, while Damian crossed his arms and glared at the screen. Before long, the man was back, this time with company. The person was cloaked, and the light wasn’t good enough for Tim to tell the gender.

“Speak,” the man with glasses said. Simple and slow enough for Tim to understand, “You have your audience.”

Damian focused his attention on the cloaked figure. “You will give this message  _verbatim_ ,” he snarled in English. For Tim’s benefit? The figure inclined its head. “Tt.”

“Grandfather, I am  _extremely_  unamused,” Damian spat. “Whatever your opinions of Drake, he is not your toy, and I  _tire_  of your pitiful attempts to play with him. What exactly do you  _want_  with him?”

The figure went still, as if listening hard, and then replied in Arabic. Male, then. Damian’s face twisted into a dark scowl.

“You abhorrent—” He switched back to Arabic, practically  _spitting_  with distaste. Tim was torn between wishing he knew want was being said and being very grateful that he didn’t.

The cloaked man who was apparently speaking for Ra’s cut Damian off mid-rant with what is clearly a question, and, from the tone, a mocking one, at that.

“Tt. Hardly,” Damian sneered, switching back to English. “But some feel he is worth  _some_ thing, and you are acting as an amateurish distraction. If you continue doing things by half, I will be forced to believe you’ve become  _senile_.”

The figure chuckled and replied in English, “Should I consider that a challenge?”

“Like it matters to me whatever you do,” Damian said hotly. “But it’s wasting my time as well as yours. Leave us alone.”

“Us?” Another chuckle, followed by a stream of Arabic.

“You try my patience, grandfather. And clearly for no good reason.” Damian frowned and shifted, his posture  _screaming_  his heritage. Both sides of it. The man in glasses actually took a small step back. “You’ve been warned. If you wish to interpret as a challenge, do. Look forward to being beaten.” He disconnected with a hiss, ripped the power cord out of the wall, and proceeded to completely clean the computer out.

“Feel free to just reformat the hard drive,” Tim said. “This one’s not so important.”

Damian looked at Tim wild-eyed, as if he’d forgotten he was there, and then sneered and broke the laptop in half over his knee.

Tim, for his part, barely reacted past narrowing his eyes. “I suppose you want to burn it, too?”

Growling, Damian said nothing, just pushed out of his chair, still holding the broken pieces of what used to be a laptop, and headed for the door.

“Feel free to disappoint Pennyworth,” he snarled, before letting himself out, the door shutting loudly behind him.

Tim blinked at his apartment in general and tried to parse what had just happened. Okay. By the look and sound of things, it certainly  _seemed_  as if Damian had pulled some strings to somehow  _get connected_  with Ra’s Al Ghul, for, apparently, the sole purpose of telling him to back off of Tim.

Something was wrong with this. Damian didn’t do him  _favors_. Certainly not ones of this magnitude. Their relationship had gotten minutely better since the initial rocky start of Damian trying to  _kill_  him, but they had pretty much reached a plateau at barely-civil greetings and the occasional team-up that didn’t result in spilling each other’s blood more than the enemies. This was unprecedented. It was practically  _nice_. Even including the fact that he was down a laptop.

He just…didn’t know what to make of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Amazingly enough, though for reasons Tim didn’t really understand, it seemed as if Ra’s got the message, now that Damian was the one who sent it. Time passed without any more interruptions from the Demon’s Head. It looked like Tim had finally caught a break. One less thing that he had to deal with, between work, classes, patrol, and other odds and ends hobbies. It was a breath of much-needed relief not to have to worry about being stalked by the world’s leading assassin network.

On top of that, his relationship with Damian had actually improved again. Slowly and grudgingly, but they were talking more often than just once in a while, and exchanging more than systematic greetings or insults. They’d even bonded, some, over sharing stories about the Ridiculous Exploits of Dick Grayson.

Tim had a few scars that Damian had been the one to carefully stitch up, making unhappy comments the whole time about how, “You need to learn to be  _careful,_  Drake. Tt. Your sloppiness makes us all look bad. There was no reason a common thug should have been able to get a knife this close to your leg. If you need practice dodging sharp projectiles, I would be  _happy_  to assist.”

Damian had a few papers that had definitely gotten higher marks, thanks to Tim looking them over. “This is  _stupid_ , Drake.” “Damian, I _know_  it is. But English is pretty much all about BS-ing symbolism. Properly. Now  _listen_ …”

It was a tentative friendship. Tim was pretty happy that they’d gotten that far, especially looking back on how they started. Mutual jealously, mutual hatred  _built_  on that jealously…

Things were definitely better now, in many more ways than one.

He should have known it was too good to last very long.

 

——-

 

Tim woke up to a pounding headache, and the fact that he couldn’t move. Or see.

He kept his breathing calm and tried to think. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t tied down, so that had to mean that some sort of paralysis…he could blink, but…he tried in vain to move his legs, then his arms, wiggle his fingers. Straining, he managed to slightly turn his head. Not much, in terms of mobility. And a blindfold on top of that, making him pretty much useless.

Think. Think! Where was he? How?  _Why_?

Soft. Whatever he was lying on was soft. Almost cushy. And he’d been propped up so that he was lying at more of a forty-five degree angle as opposed to flat on his back. If he wasn’t so worried, he could probably manage to get pretty comfortable.

The last thing he could remember was making coffee. At his apartment, with his own coffee maker. He’d gotten some new beans, ground them for brew before storing the rest. He’d taken an absentminded sip before putting on his tie…

That was probably how. And the fact that someone knew his habits— _Tim’s_  habits that well to drug his coffee helped answer who.

Silent footsteps, followed by the feeling of being  _observed_  answered the vague where and why.

“Ra’s,” he croaked. At least he could still talk. “Care to explain?”

Ra’s chuckled, and Tim felt a hand brush his cheek. “Very good, Timothy. Of course, I expect no less from you.” Tim could  _feel_  him smirking. “You’ll have to excuse the paralysis. I’ve enjoyed our games, but I’ve grown tired of the play. I wanted to take care of you myself, when you woke up.”

Tim fought the urge to swallow. So this was it. Well. Well. He’d—he’d lived to twenty-four. That was longer than he’d expected. He just hadn’t…hadn’t thought it would happen like this. But he shouldn’t be—he wasn’t surprised.

Ra’s chuckled again. “I can see you tensing up, and you shouldn’t even be capable of that yet, Detective. I’m sure you will never cease to amaze me. Ah well,” a hand touched his cheek again, moved down to stroke his throat. “I suppose in this you can’t be blamed for coming to the wrong conclusion.” Tim’s eyes widened beneath the blindfold as he felt something encircle his neck, followed by the sound of a lock clicking in place.

“What—!” He broke off, coughing and sputtering through a mouthful of liquid, the surprise giving him no choice but to choke it down.

“Harmless,” Ra’s assured him, as Tim panted, trying to regain control of his breathing. “You sounded parched.” He was stroking up and down Tim’s arms, and it made Tim twitchy, wanting to jerk away.

“What do you  _want_?” Tim managed. He felt and heard the clink of cuffs around his wrists. Ra’s was chaining him—was the paralysis going to wear off? Did he want Tim able to move and struggle during the kill? Was there going to  _be_ a kill?

He could feel himself slowly regaining the ability to move, and turned his head to the direction he felt Ra’s was standing, watching him. Lifted his hands just a little, enough to hear the clink of strong, fine chain links.

Ra’s said nothing, seemingly content just to watch Tim lie there and wind himself up with wondering.

Fine. It was hard to top Tim when it came to being patient. Ra’s had every upper hand; nothing would come of Tim trying to goad him for answers. Best to just lie still, let his brain work, and wait. He wasn’t dead yet.

 

——

 

Damian knocked on the door again, three solid raps, and scowled when no one answered. Drake  _knew_ he was coming over today after school. He felt an unpleasant clench in his stomach at the idea Drake had forgotten. Drake was often  _pathetically_  absentminded when it came to daily life and activity that involved his civilian identity (and  _body,_  Damian thought, with a sneer) but…Damian had thought he’d merited higher.

He eschewed knocking entirely and rang the buzzer. If Drake was in, and it was  _afternoon_  on the day they had an  _appointment_ there was no reason he should not be, he should  _answer_. Even busy working on a case or paper, Drake was never  _this_ dead to the world around him—

The teenager froze and cursed. Damn it. What if Drake was sleeping? The man didn’t take care of himself as it was, if he was unconscious –especially staying that way through the noise Damian had already made, Damian  _didn’t_  need to wake him up.

He turned to go,  _not_  reluctant that he was missing the time with Drake…but wait.

Wait if Drake was unconscious for a different reason? As worse-case scenarios fired through his mind –Drake couldn’t take  _care_  of himself- Damian was already picking the lock and disabling the security and

There wasn’t security to disable.

He raced in, heart pounding now ( _not_  worried but if something happened to Drake, Damian would—would be blamed for it, possibly, he couldn’t have that, he needed find Drake to make sure he was  _all right_  and—and prove that he had nothing to do with whatever had caused his disappearance—)

The apartment was empty, and Damian stalked around with a pace of controlled urgency looking for clues. Nothing in the living room to show of any struggle or fight, the bedroom was as orderly as it ever was when Drake wasn’t using it (he— _supposed_ , as it wasn’t as if he had seen or scrutinized it before, just accidentally glanced at the monitors once in a while over the more recent years), and Damian was getting more—urgent in his search, because he was finding nothing.

No cause for concern, except that the security was disabled while Drake _wasn’t there_  and he’d  _never_  before been absent when Damian expressed –requested- his wish for a meeting, and lately Drake had even started  _smiling_  when greeting him at the door and  _where was he?_

He reached the kitchen and lit upon a travel mug that was sitting on the counter, which was unusual. If it were empty, it would be put away. Full, and why was it here when Drake wasn’t?

Damian approached the mug, got out a plastic bag to protect it from his fingers as he touched the sides. Stone cold. A careful smell revealed that it was one of Drake’s fancy blends, and one Damian didn’t recognize. So at least fairly new.

No signs of a struggle. Meaning someone had watched Drake long enough to learn his habits and weaknesses, had watched to learn how to capture him without a struggle.

Had watched  _Drake_. Not Red Robin, vigilante, not Timothy Wayne, heir. Drake lived here unobtrusively.

Damian cursed, bagged the mug and its contents, the coffer grinder, the pot, the brewing apparatus, filter, and the beans themselves, and took off for the cave as fast as he could go.

He snarled at anyone in his path, only one thought on his mind; Ra’s was back.

And he had Tim.


	3. Chapter 3

“Come now, Detective,” Ra’s said, voice smooth. “Even you must admit that you are helpless to my whims. Give me the credit that if I wished to harm you, it wouldn’t be through something as hackneyed as your food and drink.”

Tim glanced at the cup Ra’s was holding and looked away. As near as he could figure out, he’d been captive for approximately three days. He’d so far refused all offered nourishment, and both he and Ra’s knew that he could last longer without it. It was a goad, that was all. Ra’s wanted…something from him.

Tim just couldn’t determine  _what_. Three days as captive, and nothing harmful, just taunts and touches. The paralysis had worn off shortly after he’d woken up the first day, and Ra’s made no illusions to re-dosing him. He was kept chained, in a small room with the bed he’d awoken in, and chamber pot and water basin within reach of his chains. Both containers were bolted in place and couldn’t be moved, and he’d been unable to tear the fabrics covering the bed, whatever they were.

There was nothing and no one else. Ra’s was the one who brought him food, who offered him liquids (always from his own hand, never just from the tray). Ra’s was the one who came in to check on him, standing so Tim had to look  _up_  (it was. It was preferable to when Ra’s sat on the bed). The water basin and chamber pot filled and emptied themselves, respectively. There were no servants, there wasn’t even Talia. Just Ra’s.

Occasionally he started conversation. Often he spoke without expecting replies. Every time he came in, he initiated contact; a touch on Tim’s arm, or leg, a casual brush over a cheek, a stroke to his shoulder. Twice, he’d brushed Tim’s hair aside, out of his eyes. They were always  _gentle_ touches, and always on bare skin. He’d only been left clad in shorts and. That left Ra’s a lot of skin. He touched Tim altogether too often during his visits, while he spoke, while he just stood there silent and watching, and always again just before he left. That was always a particular touch; a whisper of fingers across Tim’s throat, on the delicate skin just above where the collar lay.

Tim  _hated_  that he was wearing the collar, but he hated the occasional blindfold more. Ra’s had taken off the blindfold after several hours the first day, but Tim had woken with it on the second. Touches had become, more—more  _exploratory_  while he had been forced to wear the blindfold. Until Ra’s had removed it, smiled at Tim, and left until he returned with food that Tim refused.

Ra’s kept the blindfold tucked in his belt when Tim wasn’t wearing it. And Tim didn’t—he didn’t know what was going  _on_.

Ra’s wanted something. Ra’s  _always_  wanted something. But before it had been stuff Tim could understand. Like Bruce’s money. Or Tim’s own death. Or. Last time it had been Tim’s  _sperm_ and that didn’t work (thank  _everything_ ) but if he had lost interest in gaining a new heir from Tim then…why was Tim still alive?

And if Ra’s didn’t want to kill him and didn’t want to make another attempt at heir then. What did he  _want_?

For now, he apparently wanted Tim to drink something, for he had only just placed the cup back on the tray he’d brought in earlier.

“Timothy, I fail to see why you just wish to make yourself suffer. I’ve done nothing during your stay so far to make you think I plan to kill you, and certainly nothing in all of our previous interactions that would make you think I’d kill you in such a  _cliché_  manner.” He idly waved a hand, running his fingers down Tim’s arm before turning his attention to the tray. “And I assure you, if it means anything, that that is not my plan.” He held out a slice of orange. “You wouldn’t want to lose your strength.”

Tim stared at it for a long moment before heaving an internal sigh. There  _wasn’t_  anything he could do, and dying from poison in his food was no different than dying any other way. Slowly, feeling  _defeated_ , he reached for the orange slice. Ra’s eyes flickered, and then the piece of fruit was suddenly being pressed against Tim’s lips, the intention obvious.

Tim kept his mouth shut and  _glared_. Surrendering to food was one thing. Allowing himself to  _be fed_ …

He’d rather starve.

Ra’s actually  _laughed_. “Have it your way for now, Timothy.” He grabbed Tim’s hand and dropped the slice into it, before pushing the entire tray within easy reach.

Tim ate the slice and then rest of the orange, while Ra’s watched looking…pleased, chewing slowly and trying hard not to dwell on that  _for now_  and his captor’s expression and everything they meant that went unspoken.

 

—-

 

Damian was  _furious_. Three days— _three days_  and still no hint of Drake, no sign of where he’d been taken. He’d been running down all the channels, everything he knew—could  _think_  of. Father was working on it, as was Grayson, and still nothing. They’d contacted magic users only to find that Tim was shielded, run through all patterns of activity from any assassins they could find in the hope of tracing one of them back to a source. Interrogation led to nothing but suicides and Bruce had forbidden them after the second death. In a fit of desperation, they’d even tried to reach Mother.

Nothing.

He snarled and slammed his hand onto the table, making it jump. He’d taken to working on his own research in Drake’s apartment, not for any particular reason, but maybe something had been missed, maybe an ill-informed minion would pay a visit, maybe…

He stood up from the table with a bang, breathing hard. He’d skipped school and come straight to the apartment to check on leads, go over the kitchen again, anything. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t ahead in all his classes anyway; a few missed days wouldn’t hurt him. The only thing that was _possibly_  a worry was an English assignment Juniors got, some stupidly complex busy-work project that was supposed to take them a month to prepare, assigned yesterday.

Drake would assist him when he returned.

He stalked into the bedroom and sat down heavily on the desk chair, staring at the bed. It was not as neat as Drake had left it, anymore, after Damian had stopped in last night after patrol. He had only meant to pull back the covers, perhaps find something he’d missed, ignoring Drake’s faint, clean scent clinging to the sheets

He had closed his eyes, just for a moment. To let himself think and remind himself  _why_  he was spending to much energy trying to locate Drake. Father and Grayson would miss him. As would Pennyworth. He was also, Damian  _supposed_ , an asset to the Mission. On occasion

And he’d forgiven Damian for the earlier days. Forgiven the attacks and the insults and claiming Robin. Tolerated him as Damian grew. Put aside suspicion to work with him. And sometimes Drake would  _smile_. Just for him.

Drake was stupid for not keeping his grudges and suspicions, for letting his guard down to someone who might still just be waiting for the right moment. Stupid for forgiving Damian (forgiving  _everyone_ ), and stupid for apparently deciding that he liked Damian sufficiently to smile, sometimes.

Drake didn’t smile enough.

Scowling, Damian shook himself out of his pointless reverie, let go of the blankets he didn’t realize he’d been clutching, and glared at the bed one more time before making his way back to the kitchen. His—thoughts concerning Drake were of no matter, and even littler importance. He needed to find him. A connection, something that would lead to a  _path_ instead of cold ground, just a single footstep would be enough to being working in an actual direction.

Grandfather had been careful this time. Exact.  _Meticulous_.

Which meant that whatever his plan was, it was to be taken seriously. More seriously than  _any_  of the pathetic games he’d enjoyed with Drake over the years. It was…more worrisome than Damian cared to admit. Because all the effort Grandfather had expended to cover his tracks meant that he wanted Drake alive. That he was planning to  _keep_  him alive.

Keep him. It made Damian’s stomach twist, his hands clench. He needed to find a way in, and he needed it  _now_. He pulled up a file that had details of Ra’s and Drake’s previous encounters. There was the list that totaled those who had died and how, when Drake had decided to take on the entire League on his own, here was a picture of injuries sustained from an attack several years ago, documented because the cuts carried similarities to several other (killing) wounds two politicians had died from a few months prior…

The slices were just underneath Drake’s collarbone, three short but distinctive slashes that each ended with a circular gouge. The angle of the shot showed off many of the scars Drake had collected on his upper torso ( _stupid_ , there was no reason to be so careless, to leave yourself so unguarded) including the thick red one that just grazed Drake’s jugular.

Damian’s lip always curled when he caught sight of that scar, the idea that Drake had been so  _vulnerable_  as to allow Todd to mark him in such a way, one that bespoke of barely-escaped death. That Todd had gotten so close to the kill when Damian couldn’t. That Todd had gotten so close to the kill now that Damian didn’t want it. That Todd had gotten so _close_.

Todd. Damian froze where he sat, eyes widening as his brain whirred. Todd was still more ostracized than not, due both to Father’s stubbornness and Todd’s own. But he worked with them once in a while, dropping snippets of information or taunts to keep them sharp, and he worked with Drake most often, for any number of unfathomable reasons Damian refused to waste his time determining.

But Todd had ties to Mother. Talia. And though Damian was out of favor and had been for years, Todd…might not be. It was worth a try. Even if he could only contact Todd at night.

Three and a half days…

Damian moved all the furniture in the living room out of them way (Drake would most likely be upset with him, when he returned) and threw himself into his deadliest routines to work out his anger and frustration and impatience ( _not_ concern) and waited for nightfall to come.


	4. Chapter 4

He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t move right, couldn’t even  _see_ ; the blindfold…

The blindfold was almost a relief, because he only felt better now when Ra’s touched him, ran his hands all over and that was wrong it was _wrong_ , wrong wrong  _wrong_  but he couldn’t…he couldn’t think and didn’t know how many days he had been here, how many hours he’d been wearing the blindfold, how many visits

He was drugged, he knew he’d been drugged, just didn’t know when or with what or how to make it better and he felt…felt a touch on his cheek at the corner of his mouth, then his chin, his neck, not—not the brush of fingers it felt different, like—

His mind was whirring even as it buzzed and it felt like teeth, a scrap of teeth, along with hands stroking everywhere,  _caressing_  and it had to be Ra’s, he was the only  _one_  but why was he, why would he

Fingers and teeth, fingers and teeth, then a tongue in his  _mouth_  and Tim couldn’t think, couldn’t breath, couldn’t see, couldn’t  _think_

Ra’s was  _everywhere_ , caressing him, covering him, and his hands, his  _skin,_  it was burning, burning Tim up

It was a  _relief_ and he didn’t want it to be, didn’t want it to make him feel better and he couldn’t…

He couldn’t remember  _why_

 

—-

 

Grayson nodded and gave the all-clear signal before taking the jet up into cloud cover. Damian watched until he was out of sight before taking the path that had been mapped out and memorized hours before. Father was needed in Gotham, but he had access to an instant teleportation spell if back-up was required. That alone showed how much he wanted Drake safe; Father rarely allowed himself to resort to magic.

As it was, Grayson and Damian had the fastest, quietest, and stealthiest jet in the world on or off the market, blueprints, a location, and a plan.

Dealing with Todd had been insufferable, but enough information about who was missing and why (just suspicions,  _just_  suspicions) and Damian had gotten a name and a bank account.

(“The replacement being saved by his replacement. Haven’t seen that one before.”

“Will you aid me willingly or must I use  _force_.”

“Yeah, right. Try the  _ex_ -assassin threat on someone who hasn’t already died once.”

“ _Todd_. Please. I have told you what Ra’s  _wants._ ”

“…Shit, fine, okay. Fuck if I care, but Ra’s is a  _creepy_ bastard. I’ll give you the dirt. Go save Replacement’s scrawny ass.” 

“Tt. I plan to.”)

It was enough.

It had been a week, but no more time would pass. Damian swore it as he climbed the building, as he entered, disabled and hid all he came across. Drake was coming  _home_.

“Robin,” his com crackled quietly to life. “Bio scanners indicate that there’s almost no human heat signature on the fourth floor. Head there.” Damian was already moving. The information they had been able to gather suggested that whoever had actually  _taken_ Drake was dead. Few others who saw him were alive. Ra’s didn’t seem to be taking any chances on giving Drake outside contact.

He took the stairs, stopping just at the landing to try to take things in. There were numerous doors, but only one was guarded. Here, Ra’s was clumsy in his arrogance. Damian took the extra second to coat four batarangs with a sleeping draught then let them fly, moving in swiftly behind them. All were deflected –Damian certainly  _hoped_  they would be, if these guards were of Ra’s’ employ- but Damian was able to use the time to take all the guards out, sidestepping the poison darts of one as he incapacitated the other before making sure the first was  _down_. He did not use the darts, even though that would have been easier and quieter, for there was no doubt in his mind that they were deadly. Drake wouldn’t like it if murder were an accessory to his rescue.

He forced the door and walked in (was this the  _right_ place?), caught sight of the room’s contents and bolted forward.

Aside from a bed and two vessels, there was nothing in the room save for Drake, and he was lying on the bed, obviously unconscious in a way that did not mean sleep. Damian felt his lip curl as he moved, observed as he moved. There was a collar around his neck, and shackles around his wrists and ankles. He was blindfolded, the only other scrap of clothing on him being a pair of shorts. He looked thinner (only a week, only a  _week_ and that was  _too long_ ), and there were a number of marks dotting his body.

Damian bit down a growl as he got to work on the shackles, unlocking them quickly and efficiently. Drake was free in a matter of moments, though he hadn’t even stirred while Damian was freeing him.

So be it. While Damian had grown over years, shooting up several inches and putting on muscle that foretold of his build after full maturation, Drake had stayed tiny. He had officially been counted as the shortest of the male members of the family the year Damian turned sixteen. Another year had only made the differences in body type more obvious, and while Damian was still growing and thus had a leaner musculature than one would expect from Bruce Wayne’s heir, he was still inches taller than Drake, and pounds of muscle heavier. Scooping Drake up into his arms to carry him down a level to the closest window was no hardship.

“Nightwing. Bring the jet down. And hurry it up; I’m sure I’ve already raised every alarm and I am  _not_  in a position where I would appreciate being attacked.”

“Got it.”

Damian was leaping into the jet, Drake in his arms, when Ra’s came bursting in behind him, the guards already throwing everything they could.

Damian made it, both him and Drake unscathed, and he turned back to give Grandfather a smirk before turning his attention to buckling in.

Ra’s expression left him feeling a little uneasy. Past the fact that he looked  _livid_ , there was a smug glimmer; for whatever reason, they had not won yet.

 

—-

 

Once back at the cave, they wasted no time laying Drake out on a gurney to care for his injuries and to try to wake him. Alfred went to work processing a blood sample while Dick started to assess Drake’s marks. Damian got to work on the collar.

It looked like a simple band of gold at first, but Damian was certain there was something more to it. A failsafe, to ensure that Ra’s still had the upper hand. He worked carefully, making sure that removing it didn’t trigger anything  _else_  it might contain.

There seemed to be nothing. No hidden needles to sink in Drake’s skin, no trick that released poison gas. Damian glanced down at Drake’s unconscious face and, scowling darkly, picked the tiny lock and removed it. It left behind a wide band of roughened skin, and Damian did  _not_  let out a sigh of relief that that was all. But in all that time, Drake still hadn’t moved.

“Why won’t he wake  _up_ ,” he snapped. “It is incredibly inconsiderate.”

Dick shook his head. “Drugged, probably. The thing is with what? Ra’s is a master of poisons.”

“I’m  _aware_  of that, Grayson,” Damian said. “And why have you stopped tending to him?”

Dick swallowed looking upset, and angry, and…sad. That was worrisome. “ _What_? What is it?”

“He doesn’t need it,” Dick eventually said. “The actual wounds are superficial and have been tended. Ra’s…” a fist clenched, shook, “He made sure he was taking care of him.”

“A meaningless observation coming from you,” a voice said, “but I suppose I can take pride in that it was something you obviously didn’t want to admit.” Dick and Damian both jerked, heads spinning to the direction the sound was coming from.

The collar.

“What do you  _want_ , Grandfather,” Damian snarled. “Oh wait, I believe I know. And we took him back.”

Ra’s laughed, the sound carrying clearly through the little microphone hidden in the gold band. “I’m aware of that. But soon enough he’ll be mine again.” Another dark chuckle. “I’ll look forward to your delivery.”

“What are you talking about, Ra’s?” Dick said, putting a hand on Damian’s shoulder.

“He won’t regain consciousness,” came the self-satisfied reply. “Not without me. I’ve had him long enough to make him mine. If you’d prefer he stay dead to the world over living by my side, well. Then it will be  _my_ duty to rescue him from  _you_.” There was an audible ‘click’, the sound of an obvious disconnect after having the last word.

Damian grabbed the collar and  _seethed_. “What did he mean?  _What did he mean by that_. Pennyworth!”

Dick put a hand on his shoulder. Damian shrugged it off and started towards where Pennyworth was running the tests.

“Damian.” He froze; the voice was all Batman. “Give me the collar. If Ra’s was listening before, he could be listening now. I need to remove that possibility.”

Damian tossed the thing at Grayson’s head, who caught it, frowning.

“Alfred. I’ll be back.”

Damian watched uncomprehendingly as Dick left.  _Why_  was he leaving? Drake was still—didn’t he care for Drake? Care that Ra’s had  _done_  this, had taunted them, had—had—

He’d made a play for Drake, and claimed him for his own.

 _No_. He wouldn’t  _allow_  it.

“Pennyworth!” First names were pleasantries not to be used in times of _crisis_. “Are there results on the blood test, yet?”

Alfred did not turn from the monitors. “I am working on it, Master Damian. However, from what I have discerned so far, there is no doubt in my mind that Master Timothy does indeed have drugs in his system. I’m afraid it will take more time to discover what they are, and how to rid him of them.”

Damian growled. More time. More  _time_. No. He had to calm himself. This required rational thinking, not his temper. “Return to your other duties, Alfred. I will take over the drug testing.”

Alfred stood. “As you wish, Master Damian.” He walked past the gurney to glance down sadly at Drake’s unmoving form, before continuing out of the cave. Damian took a centering breath and then focused his attentions on the tests.

He was still at work when Dick returned, and only moved from the chair when Bruce arrived and insisted on taking over. Damian bit back his refusal and allowed it. If there were things he had not yet found, there was no doubt Father would bring them to light.

In the meantime, it was decided that there was no reason for Drake to remain in the cave. Nothing else appeared to be wrong with him physically, aside from the fact that he wouldn’t wake  _up_. Even monitoring his brain waves showed no abnormalities. Dick carried him out of the cave to the manor, then up the stairs to Drake’s room, while Damian trailed behind, his fists clenched.

Seeing Drake like this…he wanted to throw himself at  _Grayson_  for touching him while he was so vulnerable.

It was troubling.

Alfred came up some time later carrying a tray. There were three glasses on it and three covered dishes, and Damian took the tray with a thank-you and handed it over to Dick, who  _almost_  stopped his pacing to take it. Damian didn’t feel much like eating, but nutrients were important. By Dick’s expression, he felt the same way.

Drake still hadn’t  _moved_ , aside from his all too shallow breathing.

Alfred had just finished collecting the tray and bidding them all good night when Bruce entered the room, expression dark.

“Father.” Damian couldn’t help but be  _impatient_ , but he stood up and moved to the side. “What have you learned?”

Bruce took the chair Damian had vacated and stared grimly at Drake. “I’ve isolated what I believe is the compound that is causing this reaction. I also believe that I discovered the cure, in no small part to Ra’s Al Ghul’s bragging. However…” He exhaled and it was so much like a pained sigh that Damian wanted to  _hurt things_  “The drug is a poison, that much is clear. I’m not yet sure how to flush it from Tim’s system, but it can be effectively neutralized in the meantime by a temporary antidote.” His face  _blanked_. “It seems as though the poison was specially tailored to nullify when in contact with the oils in Ra’s’ skin.”

Dick gasped and Damian—saw white. “That— _What_ —”

“Ra’s was, most likely, continually poisoning Tim during his time in captivity, as well as using himself as a constant antidote for Tim’s systems, making the drug passive. I do not have…high hopes that the drug will continue to remain unharmful, without this treatment.”

Ra’s. His skin. His  _skin_  was the antidote, one that he would have had to apply.

All of Tim’s marks had been cared for. Had been  _deliberate_ , and there were certain images scrolling past Damian’s eyes now, ones his perfect memory was pushing to the forefront, that told of  _teeth—_

He felt sick, and could feel his lip curl in disgust. “Grandfather did seem to take particular relish in his boasting,” he said.

Dick resumed his pacing, looking like he wanted to punch the wall. “He knows that if we’re desperate enough, if Tim won’t get  _better…_ ” without him. Without Ra’s’—Ra’s’  _touch_.

“There is a possible option,” Bruce said. “I would need to run tests, but—” Dick and Damian rounded on him.

“Bruce, what  _is_  it?’

“Talia is Ra’s Al Ghul’s biological daughter.” Bruce—there was no visible hesitation before he continued, just a pause of breath. “Damian is Talia’s biological son.”

Damian did not rear back. “You think you might be able to get the antidote from me.”

Bruce nodded. “It’s something we can try.”

“Then why  _wait_ ,” Damian hissed. “We will go to the cave. You will take the samples you need.”

Father didn’t even reprimand him about the order, just nodded. “Go. I’ll follow.” Damian was out the door as soon as the order was given, just barely catching Bruce telling Dick to go to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

After all the samples had been taken, including sweat Damian had to work  _up_  in order to give (Drake had better appreciate this), Bruce sent him upstairs as well, while he started tests.

Damian was not happy that there was nothing more he could do to help, but felt mollified that it was his genetics that might hold the key to curing Drake and  _not_  sending him back to that prison. Foolish mistake, old man. Father  _would_  do it.

He paused outside of Drake’s door, and peered inside fully intending to just check on his condition and then continue on to his own bedroom.

Drake was still underneath the blankets, though his brow was creased, and his face had a thin sheen of sweat. Possibly fever from the poison. Possibly nightmares. It didn’t matter; the result was the same. Pain.

Damian walked in, and then into the adjoining bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it slightly before settling himself next to Drake’s bed to wipe his face. Drake was ridiculously fastidious when it came to being unclean. He probably would be very upset to learn what had happened to him.

…no. That. That was uncalled for. There was no blame for Drake, in this. He couldn’t—no.

No.

Frowning at himself more than anything, Damian pulled his hand back, freezing mid-movement. Drake had…Drake had turned his head slightly, just the barest hint of a twitch, to follow Damian’s hand. Was he recovering? But he couldn’t be, Father had said…

Realization hit; until now, Damian had only touched Drake while wearing his gauntlets. The oils in the skin. Ra’s and Damian shared blood, if diluted. Damian had not long ago spent time working specifically  _to_ perspire. And Drake…Drake was  _responding_ , if only minutely.

He looked around somewhat wildly, felt his hand shake against Drake’s skin. This could help. But just his hand was probably not enough, not with the dilution, not considering what Ra’s  _wanted_ —

Damian took a breath and then pressed the hidden button on the headboard, thankful that he didn’t need to search for it, that all their beds had it in the same place. It would signal to Bruce to at least pay _attention_  to the camera feeds in the room, if not have him come up directly. That done, he quickly stripped off his shirt and climbed into bed next to Drake, pulling him close to ensure the maximum amount of skin to skin contact. It was pathetically easy to, to  _envelop_  Drake, with him being so much smaller, lither than Damian himself was now and would continue to grow past.

It was not an entirely uncomfortable position. Dick had bombarded Damian with enough physical affection over the years for him to be adept at hugging, if still much less inclined to do it. He was, of course,  _not_ doing this for the enjoyment of it. He simply needed to give Drake as much skin contact as possible, as fast as possible. And for as long as was necessary until he regained consciousness, or Bruce came up with another solution.

Damian did his best to make himself comfortable while still maintaining contact with Drake, and then put himself to sleep.

 

—-

 

Damian snapped awake two hours later, to the feel of something in his arms. Moving.

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts, remember where he was, why he was sleeping with someone in his bed (not his), and when he glanced down, Drake had stilled again. But he’d managed to roll over in his sleep, which meant that he had regained the ability to  _move_. And if that meant he was curled up in Damian’s arms, his face tucked into Damian’s neck, so be it.

Damian clenched his teeth and steadfastedly ignored the puffs of warm air against his throat and put himself back to sleep.

 

—-

 

Three hours after that, Damian woke up to the incredibly familiar feeling of a body standing over his bed and watching him. He kept his eyes shut.

“Go away, Grayson,” he said irritably. He couldn’t roll over under the covers away from what was no doubt a questioning  _stare_ , so he settled for tightening his arms around Drake and keeping his eyes closed.

“How about you explain this to me instead? Because while I’m  _really_  not complaining that you’ve finally gotten over both your aversion to cuddling  _and_  to Tim, this seems like just a bit of an odd time for that to happen.”

“Idiot,” Damian muttered. But he sat up a little, careful not to jostle Drake, and opened his eyes. “You  _are_  aware that Father is attempting to extrapolate an antidote using my genetic samples. Drake reacted to me last night. I merely felt that my maximizing contact with him for a prolonged period might aid in nullifying the poison.”

“Oh…oh!” Dick grinned and ruffled Damian’s hair, who scowled. “Smart! But do you think it will work?”

Damian glanced down at the man in his arms. “Drake shifted in his sleep of his own accord during the night, which is more then he was capable of before. I don’t know if paralysis is a symptom of the poison, but he wasn’t moving yesterday.”

As if on cue, Drake suddenly stirred, moving slightly. He seemed to feel that he was being held and he murmured something before stilling again, keeping his eyes closed though his breathing showed he was obviously awake. Damian strained to make out his words.

“…blindfold. Ra’s d-don’t—” At that name, Damian clutched Drake tighter.

“I am  _not_  Ra’s,” he said, the words coming out a hiss. “And you should do well to  _remember_  that.”

“Dami..an?” Drake finally opened his eyes, blearily looking around.

“Tim!” Dick looked so happy it was close to  _demonic_. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“W-what…” His voice was weak, but at least he was using it, instead of lying as still as the dead. “Dick? I’m…” He swallowed and shifted again, Damian tightening his arms unconsciously.

“Save what little strength you’ve gained, Drake.”

Drake blinked slowly and focused on Damian. “Why are you—what—” His eyes grew wide with alarm, and he tried to sit up. Damian didn’t  _let_ him.

“Calm  _down,_  Drake. I do not enjoy the thought of having to play your living curative therapy any longer than necessary.” Drake froze where he lay and just breathed, the sounds slightly panicked. Damian glared at Dick.

Who took the hint, and put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Hey, hey it’s okay. You’re safe now. We got you out.”

“Ra’s—?”

“Dealt with, for now,” Dick said. “And you’re…sort of poisoned. Bruce figured out that an antidote can be derived from…it’s sort of an explanation. Maybe when you’re feeling better?” He held up a glass with a straw in it. “Think you could drink something?”

“Want…the explanation.” Drake managed. He sounded  _feeble_. “Damian…why?”

“I’ll explain it after you imbibe some  _nutrients_ ,” Damian growled, moving a protesting Drake until he was sitting up at an angle against Damian’s chest. Now that Drake was lucid and no longer being steadily drugged, the worst might be over, but Damian didn’t really want to take chances just yet.

Drake gave a whisper of a sigh and held out a shaking hand for the glass.

“Please,” Damian scoffed. “Like you’re in any shape to support it. Open your mouth.”

“Come on, little brother,” Dick said gently, bumping the straw against Drake’s lips. “Let us just take care of you, okay? We’ve…we’ve really been worried.”

Drake swallowed again, eyes tracking fast.

“Prove,” his breaths were coming in panicky spurts gain. “Prove you’re…Dick.”

“When I gave you my old Robin costume, I wrote you a note about not getting any stains on it,” Dick said immediately. Damian frowned. What nonsense was that? But the answer seemed to satisfy Drake, and he opened his mouth, sipping down about a third of the cup’s contents before sagging back against Damian’s chest.

“Done,” he said, voice sounding at least a little less hoarse. “Can’t…hurts. Tell me.”

“You were poisoned,” Damian snapped. “Which is what’s making you weaker than usual. But the drug used was tailored so that the oils in Ra’s’ skin acted as an antidote. Since I share genetics with him, Father is attempting to derive a full-antidote from my own samples. However, last night you reacted when my own skin came into contact with yours, so I attempted to test a hypothesis by initiating further contact. As you have since regained consciousness, I can deduce that my hypothesis was correct. Do not assume that I find this in any way pleasant.”

“Love…you too, Damian,” Drake said, after a beat, before closing his eyes and fully relaxing against Damian.

Damian glared at Dick until, grinning, the man left the room.

 

—-

 

Tim felt really, really lousy. Everything hurt, or ached, or felt too tight, and his head was pounding constantly. However, it was an improvement over the last few days. He could sit up on his own, and had regained near-full control of his body, though he was still agonizingly weak.

Something Damian made a point to comment on. Often. Usually either right after Tim tried to do something on his own, and right before Damian swooped in to do it  _for_  him. It was irritating, and frustrating, and also kind of…nice. If it were anyone,  _anyone_  else, Tim would have described his or her actions as  _doting_.

Since it was Damian, he stuck with ‘angrily well-meant’ and tried not to think about it too much. His head hurt enough as it was, and Tim had long given up trying to figure out how Damian thought.

It would be nice, though, to learn  _why_  he was doing this. In the past he’d refused to do more important things for pettier reasons whenever Tim was concerned. Though that wasn’t entirely fair, anymore; those days were a lot farther behind them now that Damian was seventeen. They weren’t close, exactly, but there was something there. Tim just didn’t think it warranted this sort of  _care_.

Damian was constantly at his side to maintain contact and counteract whatever poison Ra’s had created, but he did much more then that. Watching him like a hawk to make sure Tim ate, helping Tim around when he wanted to move,  _fetching_  things when Tim couldn’t. He had meals in Tim’s room, did his work there (when Tim was up to it, he helped), did exercise modified for the space. The only time he  _left_  was for training or patrol, or when Bruce pulled him away to run more tests or take more samples. And, for the last two nights, when he quietly came back, freshly showered after patrol, it was Tim’s bed he went to, making sure to pull Tim close before falling asleep.

Which was one of the reasons why Tim was lying awake, tucked against Damian’s chest, wondering what the heck was going on.

“Go to  _sleep_ , Drake,” Damian grumbled without moving. “I can hear you thinking. And it’s too loud.”

“Sorry,” Tim said quietly. Then, “Figures, that you can hear me thinking about you.”

That got Damian to move, shifting down so that he was facing Tim. “ _Why_ are you thinking about me at four in the morning?” Tim raised an eyebrow, for all that Damian couldn’t see it.

“Forgive me if I’m curious as to why you’re doing all this. It’s not that I’m not grateful Damian, I appreciate that I’m getting better pretty much solely thanks to your efforts. I just can’t figure out why you’re _making_ the effort.”

“Tt. You’re ridiculous.” Damian tightened his arms around Tim, something that was starting to feel like a  _habit_ , and closed his eyes again. “Go to sleep.”

Tim did his best. It wasn’t difficult to  _relax_  like this, and call it ridiculous but that sort of made him tenser. Damian was warm, and strong, and felt _safe_ , and those were not exactly the kind adjectives Tim really was comfortable feeling when wrapped in the seventeen-year-old arms of an ex-assassin.

He almost felt wanted. It had…been a long time since he’d really gotten that feeling from his adoptive family. And never to this extent, before, never wanted this  _much_  for being Tim. Just Tim. Or Drake, as the case was.

Tim sighed. He was really looking forward to feeling  _better_ , but…

He’d miss this.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce finally was able to come up with a permanent antidote the next morning, and he dosed Drake right after he finished breakfast. Within ten minutes of taking it, Drake was a shaking, sweating mess as the vicious,  _vile_  poison was forcefully purged from his system. He was unconscious an hour into the ordeal, and was moved downstairs to the Batcave for constant vitals monitoring.

Bruce insisted that, since the worst was over, Damian was free to return to school. Damian hotly disagreed, but his argument got him nowhere. School it was.

The hours were entirely wasted, as he cared little about participating in class while Drake was in the Cave in uncertain condition. He took notes absently, automatically, but his attention wandered.

“Mr. Wayne,” his English teacher finally asked after class was over, “What is wrong with you today? Are you still ill?”

“…yes.” Damian ground out.  “My apologies.” Insipid woman. “Thank you for your concern.”

She wished him well and let him leave, job well done for the caring teacher. Damian grit his teeth and went to his next class.

He was impatient to get home when the school day was finally over, and asked (demanded) Alfred go as quickly as possible.

As soon as they pulled into the garage, Damian was out of the car, dumping his bag on the floor before sprinting forward.

“Master Damian.” He flinched and stopped in his tracks.

“Yes, Alfred?” Alfred glanced at the backpack on the floor, and then back up at Damian.

Teeth grinding, Damian picked it back up and started forward again. Slower. “Is Father home?” he called over his shoulder.

“Not at the moment,” Alfred said. “Master Timothy stabilized some hours ago, and Master Bruce took the opportunity to spend some time Wayne Enterprises.”

Damian turned around to look at Alfred. “Where is he?”

“In his rooms, Master Damian.” Alfred turned away. “I will bring you up a snack shortly.”

Damian was already out of earshot.

 

——-

 

He entered the room to find Drake sitting up in bed, eyes squeezed closed and fists clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

“Drake?” he asked. If there was a thread of concern in his voice, it was _only_  because Drake was already weak enough. If he was reacting badly to the antidote…

“…Damian?” Drake asked, after some hesitation. “That’s—that’s you, right?”

“Tt. Of course it is, Drake.”

Drake turned to look at him, then winced and squeezed his eyes shut again. Damian swallowed and firmly told himself that the pang he’d felt was  _not_  hurt. “Drake. What is it?”

“Audiovisual hallucinations,” he said, eyes still closed. “Byproduct of the fever I’m running. You’re, ah, currently covered in spiders.” He twitched, and Damian frowned, eyes darting to the way Drake’s hands were  _shaking_.

“What else?” he demanded. “You’re hearing something else, aren’t you?”

Drake laughed weakly, the sound ugly and self-loathing and  _fake_. “Oh, yes, well. Ra’s al Ghul has been whispering over my left shoulder for approximately twenty minutes. I have to keep re-convincing myself he isn’t real.” He laughed again. “Your arrival helped a little; I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t allow yourself to be covered in spiders, so the other hallucinations are easier to ignore, with that reality grounding.”

“Why did Father leave you if you were  _running a fever_?”

“I told him to,” Drake said flatly. “I’m not an invalid. Alfred is perfectly capable of providing any help I’d need with Bruce gone, and Bruce has already taken enough time out of WE for me.”

“Then what about Dick,” Damian snapped. There was no excuse for Drake to have been left  _alone_ like this.

“Dick has his own life, Damian,” Tim replied. “He doesn’t live here, and while he hangs around a lot because of you,  _I’m_  not a reason to stay, especially now that I’m recovering. He doesn’t need to be around all the time. And I don’t want him to be.” As he spoke, he brought one of his hands up to rub at his throat. Damian watched him swallow.

“What is he  _saying_  to you?” he growled, abandoning Dick for the moment. So what that Ra’s wasn’t actually here—how  _dare_  he linger in Drake’s head like this.

 Drake laughed that painful laugh again and shuddered. Damian wondered just how bad this fever  _was_  to leave Drake so… _open_  about his vulnerability. He was usually much more closed than this, more guarded. “I’m…really. Not going to tell you that, Damian. But on the. The plus side, he shuts up every time you. Say something.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed in a glare directed over Drake’s left shoulder. The pauses were unsettling and he  _knew_  they were born of pain. “Does he. Very well, then I will  _continue_  speaking.” There was a book on the bedside table, and Damian picked that up. “I assume you were in the middle of this,” he said, adding, “The Planiverse?” when Drake still refused to open his eyes.

“Uh, yeah. I’m. Re-reading it, but I haven’t started it this time around. Why?”

“Then just begin at the beginning?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tt. I’m going to  _read_  to you, Drake. If he stops— _speaking_  to you when I do, then I shall continue to do so until he  _leaves_. Obviously, reading aloud is better than my attempting to make idle conversation.”

“…oh. Uh. Okay. Then yeah, just…start on page one.”

“Very well.”

“Thanks, Damian. I—really. Thanks.”

Damian rolled his eyes, not that Drake could see it, and directed his attention to the book. “Thank me when it works.”

 

—-

 

The book, the science fiction that Drake likes, is unusual, but actually somewhat interesting. Damian finds that he doesn’t mind reading it, or reading aloud, and he doesn’t stop even when Alfred comes in with the promised snack, instead just snatching bites in between sentences. Drake eats a little too (not enough), and, when Alfred checks his temperature, his fever has gone down some.

At Damian’s insistence, Drake attempted opening his eyes after they learned his fever had reduced, but he blanched immediately and snapped them shut again. He refused to tell Damian what he’d seen, but his grip on the covers regained their white-knuckled clutching. The next few paragraphs of the story were forced out as Damian scowled at himself.

He continued to read until Drake’s breathing became slow and even, his fingers relaxing from their grip on the blankets. He marked his place and closed the book and took a moment to observe Drake.

He was looking a lot better, for all that that wasn’t much of an improvement. The man still was alternating between being too flushed or too pale, a result of the fever that had come with an antidote working the  _vile_  poison from his body. And things would not be over then either; Drake was weakened from his experience. He would need to build himself up again, just as one recovering from any illness would.

Damian caught himself in the middle of reaching out to stroke a hand down Drake’s arm, to pull the covers up around him, to gather Drake into his own arms.

He stood and frowned. The movements, the instincts, were habit now, too ingrained for having only been necessary for a few mere days. He…he didn’t need to do it anymore. And he was glad. It had been—troublesome.

It had been troublesome. Drake was a terrible patient; always insisting nothing was wrong, trying to get up and do things when he could barely move, not eating enough, not speaking up about headaches until he got so dizzy he nearly fell over. It had been a constant chore to ensure that Drake was recovering  _despite_  himself. Damian was glad he was better, if only so he didn’t have to act the nursemaid anymore.

Damian snatched his hand away from where it had unconsciously settled on Drake’s shoulder and glared at—nothing. He set the book down on the nightstand and left the room. Drake was sleeping, and Damian had no reason to be present. He had homework to do.

Drake was fine without him.

 

—-

 

Tim felt well enough that evening to insist on actually joining Bruce and Damian at dinner. He still felt weak and shaky, but his fever was gone and the hallucinations with it, and that was enough of an improvement for him. Tomorrow he’d stay curled in bed all everyone wanted, but he was sick of doing nothing and at least going up and down stairs was movement. He hadn’t been doing  _enough_ of moving.

Dinner was light and easily-digestible. It was still delicious; everything Alfred made was, but Tim sort of resented the fact that the dinner menu had been altered for him. Just another reminder that he  _was_  sick, and still on the road to recovery. He’d been away from his apartment too long; he had projects that needed to be followed-up on or finished, his patrols hadn’t been done so things were going to be a  _mess_  when he got back on the streets, he was behind on work, and he didn’t even want to know what sort of nonsense his branch of WE had gotten into without him. He’d managed to get a little work done at the manor, but Damian had decided to set a  _limit_  on how much time he was allowed to spend on his laptop every day before ordering him to rest. It was a headache, and he was just looking forward to a bigger one when he returned to everything he’d been forced to put on hold.

“Do you not like it, Master Timothy?”

Tim looked up from the plate he’d been glaring at. “Oh, no, sorry Alfred, no. It’s great.” Alfred continued to look at him, until he took a bite, whereupon the older man nodded and walked away.

Tim swallowed and turned his attention to figuring out the criminal activity that would need immediate attention, once he was able to return to the streets.

“Something on your mind, Tim?”

“Mm?” Tim shrugged. “Just thinking about my area, Bruce. I was in the middle of dealing with several different crime rings, on top of the minor, every day activity. I’m a little worried about what I’m going to be returning to, to tell the truth.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t Damian tell you?”

Tim frowned and turned to Damian. “Tell me what?”

“Nothing,” Damian growled, not looking at him. “Father,  _really_.”

 “Damian, I’m surprised. You know that it’s important to share these matters. Communication is key.”

“Communication about  _what_?” Tim asked.

Damian glared and said nothing.

Bruce’s eyes crinkled, though nothing else betrayed his amusement. “Damian has been patrolling your areas while you’ve been out of commission. He didn’t know the details of your projects, but at the very least he’s been keeping things under control.”

Tim felt himself blink. Rather a lot. And he was  _going_  to thank Damian, but the first thing out of his mouth was a bewildered, “ _Why_?”

“Because you were unfit to do it,” Damian snapped. He stood abruptly. “I am finished, and I have homework to do.”

Bruce allowed him to leave the table without argument, and the conversation turned to updating Tim about the current goings-on of WE while they finished their meal.

When dinner was over, Tim took his time to get to his room. As much as it pained him to admit it, going down to dinner had taken a lot out of him. He was feeling light-headed and achy, as if he was recovering from the flu, and was sort of looking forward to taking a shower and then dropping back into bed, for all that he  _should_  be working on catching up on things.

He opened his door to find Damian waiting for him.

“…hi?”

Damian scoffed. “Get to bed. You look like you’re going to fall over.”

“I plan to,” Tim said, raising an eyebrow. “In a moment.” He tried to fix his tone; Damian had done a  _lot_  for him, and it wasn’t his fault that Tim was still feeling sort of terrible. Kind of the opposite. “Did you want something?”

Damian crossed his arms over his chest and looked distinctly uncomfortable. Tim was about to repeat his question when Damian asked, “Are you feeling better?”

He nodded. “Some, yes, definitely. My fever’s gone, and the tests are running clear. I’m a little shaky, but I’m recovering. Finally. I shouldn’t be in the manor for more than a couple more days, if that. Hopefully I’ll head home tomorrow. I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Home,” Damian said. “Your apartment.”

“Of course. Where else?”

Damian frowned at him, and left without saying anything more.


	7. Chapter 7

After patrol, Damian stopped by Drake’s apartment, as had become his habit since this whole ordeal started. It was there that he rested for a few moments and reoriented himself before he headed back to the cave to write up his reports and turn in for the night.

The place was immaculate. Alfred must have stopped by in order to get it ready for Drake’s return. Damian checked and yes, there were even prepared meals waiting in the freezer.

That Drake would be leaving the manor left a sour taste in Damian’s mouth. He wasn’t well yet, not enough that he would recover easily without proper care. And Drake was  _terrible_  at caring for himself. That much had been made infuriatingly clear. He needed a  _keeper_.

Except that thought immediately put Damian in mind of Ra’s, the fact that that was exactly what the man had intended.

 _Not_ a keeper then, but at least someone—at least someone who would _make_  Drake take care of himself.

Damian scowled at the turn of his thoughts and pushed them aside to check the security feeds. He had spent some time reworking Drake’s systems so that a mishap like this would never happen again. From the look of things, Bruce had added his own touches as well. Good. Damian nodded his approval as he fast-forwarded through the day. Nothing unexpected; Alfred had entered through the door to take care of things and earlier in the evening Nightwing had broken in, flopped on the floor to stare at nothing for twenty minutes, flipped to his feet to pace for another ten, and then left.

He made his rounds one last time, took a well-deserved moment to scowl at the –signed!- Superboy print hanging in Tim’s bedroom, and then headed back to the fire escape when he stopped, body at the ready.

Someone was already  _at_  the fire escape.

Damian bared his teeth and withdrew two batarangs. If Ra’s dared to show his face again after what he’d  _done_ …his minions were going to get a nasty surprise. And Damian knew how to keep assassins from committing suicide, though the measures were decidedly unpleasant…for them.

The figure entered silently with the cover of shadow, muttering to himself as he landed and removed his helmet. He seemed to be annoyed that the apartment had already been broken in to.

Damian stepped forward cautiously, the batarangs still in hand. “…Todd? What are  _you_  doing here?”

Todd turned his attention to Damian, the flash of surprise clear through the domino before it was replaced with a lazy smirk.

“The Replacement’s replacement, huh? Could ask you the same questions, brat. Where is he?”

“What business is it of yours,” Damian hissed.

Tood moved to casually buff his nails on his shirt. “Checking up. See, when someone like  _you_  comes to someone like  _me_  to help along a rescue mission for  _Replacement_? I find myself just a  _little_  curious about how things turned out. He’s not dead, is he?” The words were light, but there was an undertone of threatening. “I better  _not_  have given you an in just so you could mess it up.”

“He is well,” Damian replied stiffly. “Recovering at the manor. He believes that he will be well enough to return here soon.”

Todd rolled his eyes. “ _That_ says a lot. Gimme some details. I think I deserve that much, considering.”

Damian fought back a retort on just  _what_ he thought Todd deserved. He had a point. His help had been integral. If this was all he was asking in return, Damian would gladly pay the favor back now. “We retrieved him after he’d been Ra’s’ captive for a week. He was heavily drugged, but Father was able to create an antidote. Drake is currently recovering from the after-affects of the poison coupled with the purging of the drug itself.” He crossed his arms and glared. “Does that satisfy you?”

“How’s he dealing?”

“What?”

“Please, brat,” Todd scoffed, and if he used that term  _one more time_ “The guy was kidnapped and kept by the world’s creepiest, most powerful stalker for like a week, and we  _both_ know Ra’s isn’t the type to keep his hands to himself when what he wants is sitting in his lap. Dunno what condition you found him in, but I’m betting the experience wasn’t _pleasant._  Is he dealing?”

Damian thought back to Tim’s quiet murmurs about blindfold, about how it had taken three days for him to accept food without first asking for proof that the person offering it was whom they said they were. How he’d  _shaken_  from the hallucinations, and how he kept checking his throat for the ghost of a collar.

“It has been…difficult,” he said carefully.

“Yeah,” Todd said, after a beat. “That’ll happen when a person’s world gets turned upside-down.” He put on his helmet and opened the window again, giving Damian his back. “But if even  _you_  care, then at least he’s not alone in it.”

“Todd.”

Todd looked back over his shoulder, expression completely hidden by the helmet. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For your help. It—he was…” He broke off and clenched his fists.

Todd snorted. “Just make sure he gets his shit together,” he said, before leaving.

Damian stayed long enough to erase the footage of the encounter, and then he too headed for home.

 

—-

 

He stopped in front of Drake’s door on the way to his own room, purely out of habit. His hair was still wet from showering the cave, and Damian…

He was  _used_  to going in.

And that was stupid. Drake was better. At least, no longer drugged. Damian was no longer necessary, he was  _glad_  of this, and there was no reason to be hovering in front of Drake’s door like he currently was.

But the conversation with Todd had left Damian feeling unsettled. He knew Drake no longer needed him, except that he felt Drake still  _did_. Drake had  _not_  been, to use Todd’s word, ‘dealing’ at all. He’d been ignoring the fact that anything had happened. He was treating the experience as if he had simply gotten the flu.

 _Stupid._  Stupid, stupid,  _stupid_. Not Drake, not—anyone. Just…

With a quiet growl, Damian opened the door and stepped inside. He was just checking. Just checking, to make sure Drake hadn’t managed to further damage himself through simple  _neglect_ and then he would move on.

From the looks of it, Drake was asleep. That was to be expected; though Drake had been at least half-awake every other time before tonight, Damian had been out later than usual. And, of course, there was no reason for Drake to expect Damian to come in tonight (and it hadn’t before crossed his mind that Drake might possibly have been waiting up for him). There was no reason  _for_  Damian to come in tonight.

But as his eyes adjusted to the light, Damian noticed that the covers were askew, pulled every which way as if Drake had been tossing and turning. Which was odd; from his own experience, Drake barely moved when he slept. What—? He stepped closer, telling himself that he was only doing it to see why Drake’s sleeping patterns had suddenly changed.

Drake was almost sideways on the bed, curled up into a protective ball, his head touching his knees with his arms covering his face, the blankets barely clinging to one ankle. As Damian got closer, Drake  _flinched_ , his whole body jolting, and Damian watched, unnerved, as the man uncurled onto his stomach, arms crisscrossed over his head. His breathing was shaky and quiet, and-and he was  _trembling_  and Damian was by the bedside all at once, frozen on what to do.

Should he wake him? He knew that nightmares were different for different people. If Dick was woken up, he had to take a moment to settle into reality and then he was fine. Colin, on the other hand, just relived the nightmare over and over, if he was jolted from one instead of riding it out. Which was Drake? What was he supposed to do?

On the bed, oblivious of the fact that he was being observed, seen so _vulnerable_ , Drake rolled back onto his side and let out an almost inaudible sob.

He had a hand on Drake’s shoulder before registering the movement. At the touch, Drake jerked upright so quickly that it was only Damian’s quick reflexes that saved them both a painful collision. The same reflexes had him stepping back to avoid a punch to the face.

“Who’s there?” Eyes unused to the dark of the room, Drake looked around wildly, before stilling, as if remembering where he was. He squinted. “…Damian? You—what are you doing in my room?”

Damian crossed his arms and bristled. “You did not seem to mind be being here over this past week.”

Drake gave him a funny look. “Uh, no? But I figured you’d stopped. You know, since I’m better now?”

“Are you?”

Drake’s eyes darted to the door once, before he gave Damian what was probably supposed to be an encouraging smile. It was nothing like the ones he gave when he helped Damian with schoolwork.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’m feeling a lot better. You knew that before, you didn’t have to check up on me after your patrol.” He sat up fully, now looking  _concerned_  for—for  _Damian_  and having that expression directed at him, directed at him  _now_ … “Wait, you probably weren’t just checking up, were you? What happened? Are you okay?”

“I spoke with Todd,” Damian blurted out, unable to think of anything else.

Just like that Tim was out of bed and standing next to him, hands already moving across Damian’s shoulders and down his arms. “Were you hurt? Damn it, I thought he’d grown  _out_  of this. It was taken care of, right?” Damian wrenched away and took a full step back.

“I’m  _fine_ ,” he said. “And I trust you not to insult me again by insinuating Todd could injure me.”

Tim crossed his arms. “Okay, fine. What am I supposed to think. It’s four in the morning, Damian. You’re in my room fresh from patrol. I’m not supposed to assume damages?”

“I’m not the one’s who’s  _damaged_ , Drake.” As soon as he said it, Damian knew it was  _wrong_  but it was too late. Drake withdrew, closing his expression off completely.

“Really,” he said, voice flat. “And here I thought we’d just discussed that I’ve healed up fine.”

“That isn’t—”

“Is that why you’ve started taking my patrol?” Drake asked, voice still _dead_. “Gone back to thinking I can’t handle it? Not worthy of calling myself part of the family? Too  _damaged_  now, perhaps?” He shook his head as Damian listened, horrified. “I guess I’m not too surprised, considering. Was it Jason who told you that Ra’s was trying to make me his whore, or did you figure it out yourself?” And there was that ugly, _ugly_  laugh again.

“Not that hard a conclusion to come too, really. There are only so many situations that call for a person to be chained to a bed and drugged and…” Drake looked away. “Until Stockholm Syndrome sets in.”

“Drake, I—”

Drake sat down heavily on the bed and put a hand over his eyes. “Damian. You’ve…you’ve really done me a lot of favors. And I appreciate it. Do me one last one and just go, okay? I’ll be gone tomorrow. Done with the family, if that’s what they want now that I’m…You might not even see me when you leave for school. Which, speaking of, you need to go to  _sleep_. And I need to. Also do that.”

“You are having nightmares.” What was this  _nonsense_  that kept pouring forth from his mouth?

Drake glared up at him. “Why yes, Damian. Yes, I am. Nightmares tend to follow traumatic events, and I haven’t yet seemed to have completely recovered from this one after all. Thank you for reminding me.” He looked down at his hands. “Maybe you’re right to take my patrol. If, after everything,  _this_  is what gets to me…it’s no wonder if everyone is gunning for you to replace me again.” The sigh sounded like a cut, and Damian couldn’t  _take_  it anymore.

“ _No_ ,” he hissed. He surged forward and gripped Drake’s shoulders, leaning close and  _showing_  his own eyes, whatever might be in them. “I don’t understand why you think this. It is  _wrong_. That isn’t why I—That’s not  _why_. I don’t want to take anything from you. I don’t—I don’t _mean_  it when I say you are pathetic. It isn’t true and I am  _aware_  of that! You are skilled, you are strong, you are  _brilliant_ , and you are capable of doing other things, things past this  _life_  with your skills, if you so wished.” Drake’s breathing was uneven, and Damian could feel his own coming in harsh pants, the words not  _enough_  because for some reason the doubt was still  _there_.

“And how dare you even  _consider_  these are things you do not have. And the possibility  you aren’t  _cared_  for? Do you know what we did when you went missing? Do you know what  _I_  did? I was up for two days searching everywhere I could think. I contacted Todd, who  _helped_  me. I contacted my  _mother_. Father tried to force me to sleep and I could not, because you weren’t found yet. He didn’t rest at all. Dick was beside himself, blamed himself, and he was  _right_ to do so because he is supposed to be _close_  to you and  _he still left you alone_.”

 What can I do,” he demanded. “What can I do to convince you of the _truth_ , of your ability, your  _worth_.” It wasn’t a question, because he had an answer. Because Damian knew what he  _wanted_  and what needed to be said.

“Tim,” and once he’d said it, used the name, he couldn’t  _stop_. “Tim.  _Tim_. Please. Damaged was the  _wrong_  word. I meant…” He let out a shaky breath. “I simply meant that you are in pain. Let me. Let me try to aid you. Please.”

Tim was looking at him, eyes wide and tracking fast, but expression unreadable. Damian let go of his shoulders and pulled back slowly, allowing himself to be scrutinized.

Finally, after eons, Tim spoke. “Go to sleep,” he said quietly. “It’s late. You can stop by my apartment after school. We’ll talk more then.”

“Very well.” He didn’t want to leave, but it was enough for now. He bid Tim goodnight and went back to his room, to sleep in his own bed for the first time in almost two weeks.

It felt wrong. Empty.

Rest did not come easily.


	8. Chapter 8

Tim parked his motorcycle, used the complex’s elevator for the first time in months, opened his door, flopped down on his couch, and stared at the ceiling. He’d left the manor not long after he’d sent Damian to his room. He needed to  _think_ , in his own space, and the manor had to many memories, to many echoes for him now.

The burst of adrenaline that had gotten him out of the house at five in the morning was fading now, and he sagged against the cushions working up the motivation to move. Now he had to focus on getting better. A quick walk-around the apartment and a security check, and he’d go back to sleep (alone) and stay in bed as long as his body wanted to. End of story. He needed the rest and he knew it.

Groaning just a little, he pushed himself up and, yawning, started to make his rounds. At least it looked like he was tired enough that sleep would come, even with the thoughts currently bumping around in his head. Living room was clear, so was the den, the kitchen…

He paused in the guest bedroom. Everything was really  _clean_. Tim kept his apartment respectably neat of course, but he’d been gone for days. There should at least be dust or something, especially in the rarely-used guest bedroom.

Tim blinked and then went to check the bed. And…that was Alfred’s practically-patented sheet arrangement. So Alfred was here. Huh. Well, Tim  _had_ given him the spare key; there was no one else on the planet who could be more trusted with it. And if Alfred had cleaned…

He padded back to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator he’d ignored before. Clean, and much less empty than it had been. Tim swallowed and closed the door. He’d have to make sure to thank Alfred, but the food…

He probably wasn’t going to be able to eat it. Eating in the manor was one thing, and food might have been prepared where he couldn’t see it, but that was  _safe_. But if he didn’t know where it’d been bought, or how it was prepared…his coffee had been tampered with. He wasn’t going to take chances on anything else.

Tim went to re-instate the security and check the feeds. He was really tired, but he’d sleep safer knowing who had (and hadn’t) been in the apartment recently.

He watched Alfred come over, his arms full of packages, methodically clean  _everything_ , and…slip a note into his pillowcase. Huh. He’d have to check that. Followed by nothing, and nothing, and then Dick showing up as Nightwing and just… _being_  there for a good half hour. Why—?

There was blank time from about three in the morning to three forty-five, and Tim felt something inside his  _seize_. He let out a shaky breath and forced himself to clam down. No one trying to sneak in under the radar would do so and then leave such a gaping example of what they’d done. Damian had taken over his patrols; it made sense that he used Tim’s apartment as a convenient base while Tim was absent. The fact that time was missing on the feeds coupled with the fact that it was _obvious_  time was missing…Damian had erased something, but had made sure to let Tim know about it.

Tim frowned, but let it go. Not important, as long as things were still safe. He sighed and stretched, before making his way to his own room.

There were two unopened bottles of water on his nightstand, and Tim smiled at them gratefully. That would be a load off of his mind when he next woke up. He changed out of his clothes, dropping them in the hamper, and crawled under the covers, pulling the note out of the pillowcase before settling back against it.

_Dear Master Timothy,_

_I hope you are settling well. I took the liberty of restocking some of your necessities. Both the refrigerator and freezer contain some prepared meals. Upon every package, I have affixed a blue sticker. In the bottom right corner of your refrigerator is a green tonic water bottle. If you place a drop or two of this bottle’s contents on one of the blue stickers, the sticker will then turn red. I must warn you; if you fail to do this before opening a package, you will find the taste of the food quite unpleasant._

_Do visit more often, Master Timothy._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Alfred._

He brought a shaky hand up to his mouth as he set the note down. Alfred…he’d thought of everything, hadn’t he? Tim laughed, the sound only a little bit cracked. Tamper-proof, pre-prepared meals. He smiled and shook his head, wishing that he  _couldn’t_  appreciate the genius that they were. Only Alfred.

Tim turned off his lamp and curled up under the covers. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing and waited for sleep to come.

 

——-

 

Damian tracked down Colin during forth period, when he knew Colin had a study hall. Granted, Damian had to skip his own third, forth, and fifth periods in order to get to Colin’s school to track him down, but he is going to Tim’s apartment the  _instant_  school is over, and so this was the only remedy. He needed to talk to someone who knew, knew  _him_ , and the insanity that was the Bat family dynamic. And also wasn’t Dick or-or _Todd_.

Colin grinned at him through the window when he got Damian’s signal and held up a finger. Two minutes later, he was outside and hopping on the back of Damian’s bike.

“Helmet’s on,” he said, easily wrapping his arms around Damian’s waist. “Where are we going?”

“Early lunch?” Damian offered.

“Oh  _yeah_ ,” Colin replied. “ _Never_ going to turn down food.”

Damian drove them to a place far  _enough_  away from the school that neither he nor Colin would be found by other people who know them, and just crowded enough that they were faces at tables without the amount of civilians making him antsy. They ordered quickly, and Colin slouched happily back in his seat as the waitress left.

“Aren’t you gonna get in trouble for skipping?”

“Tt. Dick will probably be pleased. He says that there isn’t enough excitement and scandal anymore, now that I’ve been accepted as a legitimate heir for several years now.”

“Oh. Well, happy to help then,” Colin said grinning, as he accepted his drink from the waitress. “We should do this more often.”

Damian gave the woman his own nod before she went off again. “You know I have been. Busy. These past weeks.”

Colin’s expression sobered. “Yeah. I know, I—that wasn’t a rag, Damian. Sorry. I just missed you, you know?” Colin looked around and leaned forward a little bit. “How is he?”

“As stubborn as ever,” Damian replied, annoyed. “He insisted on returning to his apartment this morning. I suspect he left not long after I went to sleep.”

“Whoa, he snuck past  _you_?” Colin’s eyes widened. “You sure you didn’t catch whatever he had?

“I most certainly did  _not_ ,” Damian said, glaring. “You know as well as I do how ridiculous that is. And he didn’t sneak past me; I was in my own bedroom. My suite is in a different  _wing_.”

“Wait a second, why were you there? I thought—wait.” Colin frowned. “Um?”

“You thought what?”

“Well,  _you_  know.” Colin waved his hand vaguely and tried a smile. “That you guys… _you_  know.”

“That we  _what_?

“Were a—a…thing. Because. Um.”

“Colin. You are trying my patience.”

Colin took a big gulp of his soda and set the glass down with a  _thunk_. “You said you were sleeping together,” he said in a rushed whisper.

“Yes…? And I believe I explained why.” He frowned, then remembered. “Oh, yes, you don’t—it is no longer necessary for me to do so. Father was able to find the proper medicine required.”

“Oh.” And  _Colin_ frowned. “Okay, I know you didn’t mean anything but sleeping and you told me why and everything, but I  _know_  you, Damian, and you’ve gotta  _like_  the guy in order to be  _willing_  to sleep with him every night for, like, a week. Not to mention that you haven’t left his side for about as  _long_.” The expression turned concerned. “Did you guys get into a fight or something?”

Damian felt his throat work, but no sound came out. At last he hissed, “ _What_  are you  _babbling_  about?”

Colin sighed and held up a placating hand. “Look, I’ll. Never mind. Sorry! Never mind, okay? I haven’t seen you in  _forever_ —”

“I made sure to contact you at least twice a week,” Damian said, allowing the subject change for now. He would bring it up again when Colin was off-guard and get a straight answer.

“Yeah,” Colin said. “ _Briefly_. To give me a heads up, which I really appreciate, don’t get me wrong. I just wanted to know a little more about what was taking all of your time, that’s all. And—and to share my news! Which I’ve been sitting on for a week, since you weren’t there to  _tell_.”

“News?”

Colin’s smile tried to take over his entire face. “Okay, okay, you remember Marilyn, right?”

“The girl you haven’t shut up about for  _months_?” Damian rolled his eyes. “Yes, I believe I do. It would be difficult to forget, considering how much time you spend mooning over her.”

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of a guy in love. You aren’t going to dampen my mood in telling this news.”

“Which is…”

“We’re dating!” Colin beamed. Damian failed to look surprised. “Oh, come on. You couldn’t have seen this coming.”

“Even aside from the fact that it was easy enough to tell what you were going to say, I believe I mentioned last  _month_  that it was obvious, upon meeting her, that your feelings were returned. It is about time you got your act together and spoke to her about it.”

“Actually…” Colin blushed bright red under his freckles, not that it detracted from his smile any. “She approached me first.”

Damian took the obvious cue to encourage. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” A lovesick sigh, and now Colin’s expression was decidedly…goopy. “In the halls after lunch, she came up all determined-looking and said that she knew I liked her and that she liked me, and that I better go out with her tonight so we could stop being stupid about it.”

Damian allowed himself a small smile and an approving nod, for the girl’s approach. “You could do worse.”

“I couldn’t do  _better_. And it’s—I mean, even before I wanted to date her, we were really good friends…I think that makes it better, you know?”

“I suppose,” Damian allowed, before shrugging. “I am happy for you, if only so that hopefully this means you will be spending less time sopping over her.”

“I plan to sop just as  _much_ , thank you.”

“However, now I am able to push you off in her direction, instead of being forced to listen to you whine about how you aren’t good enough for her to look twice at.”

“Ouch.” But Colin was laughing as he said it, so it was okay.

They were interrupted again by the waitress bringing their food, and Damian sat back to give Colin his necessary five minutes of being reminded that he was, of course, ravenous, and stared at his own plate with decidedly less enthusiasm.

When Colin came up for air, Damian took the opportunity. “I wanted to speak with you,” he said. “In person. I could…use your advice.” Colin’s eyes widened comically.

“Mmnm?”

“Tt,  _chew_ and  _swallow_  your food. Honestly.”

Colin did so, then grinned again. “Like you couldn’t understand me anyway. What’s up?”

Damian sighed. “I am…unsure, to tell the truth.”

“So gimme some facts,” Colin said, before taking another mouthful of chicken.

“T-Drake returned to his apartment this morning.”

“Uh, yeah. You mentioned that. And you’re pissed off—I got that too.”

“I—“ Damian glared down at his plate. “I think I am…upset. That he no longer needs me to care for him.”

Colin, who had just taken a drink of soda, made a ‘hgk’ noise and started coughing. He held up a hand when Damian frowned at him in mild concern and got himself under control. Then he stared hard at Damian.

The silence stretched.

“Uh,” he finally began, after Damian shifted impatiently, “I think…” He trailed off, the look of concentration showing that he was choosing his words  _carefully_. “Well. Do you, um, have an idea why? You’re upset?”

Damian did not fiddle with his cutlery. “I believe I might…that I might have…” He clenched a fist under the table. “That I might have grown to care for him. And now that he no longer needs me to, I do not know where I stand.”

Colin nodded eagerly. “Good! That’s good. I mean, not, you know, the issue, but that you have an idea of why you’re not happy. At least if you _know_  the problem, you can go try and fix it, right?”

“I suppose.” Damian looked back up at Colin. “How?”

Colin blanched and shoved a handful of french fries into his mouth. Damian narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t have a suggestion, you merely had to  _say_  so.”

“Mnmnmhnm! Mnmnhnm mhn mhmn,” said Colin, waving his hands and chewing fiercely. Swallowing he said, “I was  _thinking_. You caught me off guard!”

“So you need to have food in you mouth to think? Tt. That would explain much.”

“Oh shut up,” Colin said. “I’m  _helping_  remember?” He threw a fry at Damian’s head, who, eyebrow raised, caught it and dropped it back on Colin’s plate before wiping his fingers with a napkin.

“Don’t be childish.”

“Who’s being childish? I’m not,” Colin said, taking another sip of soda. “Seriously though…it sounds like…I dunno. That you’re kinda wrong.”

“About what?”

“Don’t give me that look,” Colin said. “I mean wrong about him not needing you.”

“He doesn’t,” Damian said flatly. The words didn’t hurt to say. At all. “Now that he is no longer ill, he no longer requires my attentions.”

“So he’s all better? Like, completely?”

“No,” Damian growled. “The stubborn fool is still recovering. It would have been better if he’d  _stayed_  in the manor. Then at least Alfred would be able to provide him with proper care.”

“But…he’s not in the manor,” Colin said. “He went back to his apartment. So Alfred’s not there. And if he’s not better, then he still needs you. Right? I mean, you’ve ranted about him enough times to me about how he’s, like, the worst ever at taking care of himself when he’s distracted with something else.” He smiled at Damian. “And you’ve ranted to me about him a  _lot_.”

 “You are exaggerating, but yes, I…he is most likely distracted enough that he’ll  _neglect_  the proper care required to get him to optimal quickly.” Distracted by  _Ra’s_ , and Damian would kill to know what that hallucination had whispered in Tim’s ear.

Not kill. Tim wouldn’t like it.

Seriously maim, then.

Colin beamed. “Problem solved, then. He still needs you. So…go and be there and stuff.” He rolled his eyes. “Honestly Damian,  _why_ do you think I’m the one who has trouble with romance?”

“Marilyn,” Damian said immediately and  _not_  commenting on Colin’s word choice.

“—and I are dating!”

“Yes.” Damian smirked. “And  _she_  is the one who approached  _you_. You would never have said anything.” Even as he spoke the words, he was freezing internally.  Drake wouldn’t—

Tim would never say anything. No matter what. He was so  _determined_ that no one wanted him that he’d wallow in solitude until and  _only_  until others told him otherwise by forcing themselves into his life. Even his old team had to track him down more often than not.

And he wouldn’t go to them now, no matter how much he needed…how much he needed someone else to be there. Needed someone to care for him, to wake him from nightmares. To make sure that he wasn’t alone with only  _Ra’s’_  voice in his head and the memories that came with it.

Tim needed  _someone_.

Damian could be that someone.

“Colin.”

“Mmn?” Colin looked up, mouth full.

“Congratulations on your current relationship with Marilyn. We will celebrate. Order any of the desserts you wish.”

Colin beamed. “All  _right_.”


	9. Chapter 9

Damian didn’t feel like going back to school after dropping Colin off and, after a short internal debate, decided not to bother. He had already missed three periods; two more would not hurt. He wanted to talk to Tim.

Except that he had promised that he would visit after school. And he didn’t think that Tim would much like knowing that Damian skipped at all, but visiting now would only cement the fact that he had skipped _because_  of Tim. Unacceptable.

Three hours to kill, three and a half if he wanted to keep the illusion he had actually attended classes and thus had to travel to Tim’s apartment once they let out. He had things to do at least; menial, boring busywork that teacher’s assigned because they couldn’t be bothered to embrace a curriculum that actually engaged thinking. It was better than nothing. He certainly couldn’t go back to the manor for more important work, and it was probably tempting the wrong fates to break into a safehouse at this time of day.

He ended up at one of the large parks, parked his motorcycle, grabbed his pack, and walked in. It took a few minutes for him to find a suitable spot to work, but eventually he found a shady, somewhat comfortable area that was fairly secluded. Two women were seated on a blanket on the ground a little way down from him, but they were speaking quietly, so Damian ignored them and their occasional giggles.

After about an hour, Damian had completed his math and (poor excuse for) “history” assignments, and had settled down to scowling at the current classic for English, his most dearly hated subject except, perhaps, for gym. They were reading  _A Catcher in the Rye_  and all he had gleaned from it so far was that Holden was a distasteful character, and that Damian personally felt his intelligence insulted every time he had to read the fool’s opinions.

He was sorely tempted to throw the book aside after struggling with it for several minutes, and a commotion happening had him looking up, welcoming the distraction.

The two women from before were still seated together on their blanket, but they were no longer alone. Four young men were standing around them, and the six were holding a very loud conversation.

Listening to what was actually being spoken brought to light that it wasn’t a conversation at all. The males were jeering, throwing slurs, while the women were repeatedly telling them to go away and leave them be.

In the few seconds he paid the scene his attention, Damian had enough. He left his things and stood, moving to join the group.

“Leave,” he told the intruders, point blank. He surveyed them coolly; they were all late teens, if that, two gangly with the awkwardness of adolescence, two stockier with muscle that would most likely never reach full potential. “You are being bothersome.”

The four laughed, and one of the more muscular ones sneered, a show of supposed leadership. “Aw, protecting the lesbos? You a faggot too?” Out of the corner of his eye, Damian saw one of the women tighten her lips. “Take a hike, sand ni—”

He didn’t finish the insult, on account of being distracted by his newly broken nose.

Damian kept his hands up and glared at the other three. “I will only act in self-defense,” not that you scum deserve it “So please, feel free to attack.”

It was over quickly, as Damian knew it would be. Idiot amateurs, not worth his skill, and not even enough of a challenge to vent his frustrations. He had them running with only simple bruising, though he took care to knock out the front tooth of the one after the leader who was most vocal with the slurs.

The women didn’t seem to know whether to run from him or thank him, and Damian couldn’t care either way. As soon as the last of the four fools had fled, he turned without a word back to where he’d left his things, grabbed the lot, and made his way back to his bike. He took out a disinfectant wipe to use for his hands, and decided to give up the pretense of school altogether. He needed to get this  _out_. Tim would have to understand.

 

——-

 

He arrived at the apartment, parked, hesitated, and then went up to enter through the front.

“Drake,” he announced as he knocked, “Drake, I have come to visit.” _And you said you would be here._

His stomach dropped as the seconds ticked by, remembering how the exact same scenario had gone to terribly wrong last time. Then the door opened, and he had to force himself not to leap at Tim and check him for injuries.

The older man was breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat on his skin. It was a split second later when Damian realized that Tim was wearing workout clothing, and that his skin was healthily flushed instead of being sickly pale. Damian glared regardless.

“You shouldn’t be exerting yourself yet,” he said.

“And you should be in school,” Tim said. “We’re both ignoring instructions, and neither of us has come to harm yet today.” He stood aside and swept out his hand in invitation. Damian stepped over the threshold, watched narrow-eyed as Tim closed and locked the door.

“We have matters to discuss,” he said, when Tim turned back to look at him.

Tim’s lips quirked a little, not a smile or a frown. “So I’ve gathered,” he said. “Come into the kitchen. “Would you like a drink? A snack?”

“I had lunch with Colin,” Damian admitted. “But a drink would be welcome.” Tim nodded.

“Sit, I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”

“…thank you,” Damian said, a moment late. He felt…nervous. This upset him, and he found himself scowling. He didn’t want to feel nervous, or upset; he wanted the feelings to  _stop_  so that he could have this conversation calmly and rationally and present his case as best as he possibly could.

Tim was still busy at the counter, and luckily didn’t see Damian’s expression. He was putting some things on plates and grabbing something from the refrigerator and

Damian got a glimpse inside, to see a number of wrapped packages and sealed bottles, and nothing out or clearly seen or obviously food. It mades him even more unhappy and there was no  _reason_  for this, which was just as equally upsetting.

Tim sat down across from him at the table a moment later, setting down a plate of pastries and a bowl of grapes between them.

“I know you said you ate with Colin, but I’m guessing that means you went out to eat.” And he  _smiled_  then, fully this time, his small, lopsided _real_  smile and Damian

Damian swallowed and quickly reassessed what that made him feel and want and hope for.

The seconds ticked by loudly, Tim seemingly content to sit in perfect silence while he waited for whatever it is Damian wanted to say. Except that Damian is no longer certain of that himself. He just…he wanted…

“What are the packages for,” he blurted.

“Packages…the ones in the refrigerator?” Damian nodded. “Oh. They’re all from Alfred. Pre-prepared meals, in tamper-proof packages. If I don’t open them in a certain way, they dye the food blue.”

“Why are they necessary?”

Tim shrugged. “Cushioning my issues. I have a bit of a  _thing_  with food now. I’m hoping that it will dissipate in time, especially once I’m feeling better.”

Damian knew this had something to do with his grandfather, something that he might never be allowed to fully understand. The anger was suddenly there again, white hot and raging. Along with…something else. Anger had been there. Disappointment, pain, confusion, frustration.

He had yet to feel shame.

“I am sorry,” he finally said, head bowed. “I have continued to make grievous errors when speaking with you. Nothing I say is meant to belittle you or your experience or attempt to make you relive any part of it.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “You’ve always been blunt and abrasive, Damian. I’m not about to expect that to change.”

The words hurt, but they are only truth. Damian nodded and accepted them.

“I still wish to apologize.”

Tim waved a hand. “Accepted. Honestly, there’s not a whole lot you _couldn’t_  get away with for the moment. Not after the last few weeks.” He smiled again, looking rueful. “Have I thanked you for that yet? I don’t really remember, to tell the truth.”

“You did,” Damian said. “Several times.”  _You enjoyed it when I held you,_  he wanted to say.  _You always moved to curl against me. Do you remember that?_

Tim nodded and looked ready to speak again, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the teakettle whistling on the stove. “Just a sec,” he said, before getting up to fix the tea.

The cup he handed to Damian a moment later…the aroma was distinctive. Damian blinked in surprise, realizing that it was his favorite chai tea. He knew that Tim didn’t like it. He also knew that Tim didn’t have any the last time Damian had come over for a real study session.

When he looked up, Tim was just drinking his tea, looking thoughtful, and Damian found himself saying anything, just to begin a conversation and stay in Tim’s presence and prove that he was sincere.

They discussed Damian’s school work, Collin’s advance in love, Tim’s program for getting back into shape (which Damian insisted on revising completely). They got through three cups of tea, all the grapes, and a pastry each.

Eventually, Damian let Tim steer the conversation toward more details on what happened during his absence. He had been avoiding bringing ‘work’ up, but he couldn’t deny Tim information on what they all went through. What  _he_  went. He  _wanted_ to make sure Tim was aware of that. But not too much; too much would be just as bad as too little right now.

He excused him after several hours had passed, for all that he wanted to stay longer. Tim walked him to the door.

“Thank you for your time,” Damian said, once there. “I enjoyed the afternoon.”

“You’re welcome anytime, Damian.” And how far they have come, from those first years. “I had fun too.” Another smile. “Just try not to skip school too often, okay?

Damian scowled. “It’s an insipid institution.”

“No arguments, but it’s still good for you.” Tim nodded at the backpack slung over Damian’s shoulder. “Next time you come over, we can work on making you hate Holden a little less.”

“Unlikely.”

Tim chuckled. “Yeah, I never liked him much either. But it’s worth a shot.”

Before Damian could think better of it or convince himself not to, he wrapped his arms around Tim and pulled him close, giving the best of all he had learned from Dick. At first Tim stiffened, but a second later his shoulders loosened and he hugged Damian back.

_I will be here tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that. I care about you. I want things to be better._

_I want to kill my grandfather, for what he has done._ _I want to help make new memories, good ones, to deaden his._

_I want you to be pleased with me._

_When I held you while you slept, you didn’t have your nightmares._

Damian stepped back and opened the door. “Be safe,” he said, before closing it behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

Damian was back the next afternoon. And the next. And the next, and the next, and the next.

They talked about easy things; how Tim’s day was, what Damian covered at school, updates of Colin’s love life. Tim helped Damian with his homework, or Damian studied on his own while Tim did other work. They didn’t discuss nighttime activities. Dick was barely mentioned, Bruce only in passing.

Ra’s did not come up at all.

Damian still disliked that their interaction was only limited to these afternoons. He had gotten used to more. More time with Tim, even if it was just to sit with him, or berate him for not eating properly. Or to be able to touch his arm, or brush the hair out of his eyes, or to pull him close. They rarely touched now, back to their old habits of being civil but not close. Friendly, but focused. Even affectionate, but to a point.

And only just.

Tim seemed more comfortable, at least. He wasn’t skirting around issues, and wasn’t trying to hide injuries either. The fact that he knew Damian had seen him at his worst seemed to get rid of a lot of his wish to hide. Twice so far he had excused himself early, when conversation got to be too much.

At night, Damian was harsher again. Mean, and it was with a sudden, overwhelming clarity that he began to understood Todd more, of all people.

Muggers and murderers Damian wiped the floor with like the scum they were, but would-be rapists…

He hadn’t left anyone dead, but Bruce had already had to talk to him once about controlling his behavior. Damian clenched his fists and his teeth and listened to the warning and promised himself to do better, if only because if he didn’t there would one less person out there protecting those who needed it and making sure bad things didn’t _happen_  to innocent people.

So one night, after patrol, he found his way back to an alley he was familiar with, nodded at the scantily-clad girls dotting the front of it, and braced himself for an evening with

“Todd.”

Jason turned to look at him, lip curling. “Well, well, The brat’s back? You better not be here to ask for another favor, because I’m all out.”

“I have some questions.”

“And you come to me.”

Damian shrugged. “You seemed the best option. I cannot ask father, and I will not ask Dick.”

“Don’t have any  _friends_  to run to for advice?”

“You know about the situation, and you know more than that. I have never experience trauma, and I know little about people who have. Help me.”

“What for?”

“I am asking.”

Todd leaned back against the wall. “Gonna have to do better then that.”

Damian crossed his arms. “I will not kill for you, but I will do everything else.”

Todd paused at this. “The fuck? It means that much to you?”

“I need to understand. It is hurting him. It’s hurting  _me_. I want to make it better, and for that I need to understand.” He glared. “You would do well not to doubt my sincerity.”

Todd  _laughed_. “Down, kitty. Just interested, that’s all. So…say I had a pimp I needed dealing with, but I didn’t want to dirty my hands on him…”

“Done,” Damian said. “Tell me his location and what you want me to do.”

A frown from Todd. Damian gritted his teeth. He wanted this  _over_  with. “Is there a problem?”

“Apparently,” Todd said, cocking his head. “Because you’re being a little bit freaky-cooperative.”

“I did not come here to be  _tested_ ,” Damian spat, at his end. “I came because you regularly  _deal_  with people suffering from captivity and rape induced trauma and I need to know how to help him  _heal_. He won’t hear talk of revenge, won’t discuss how it is affecting him. For all he cares, it didn’t matter!”

Todd looked at him coolly. “So what’s wrong with that?”

Damian fell silent.  _If he won’t acknowledge the past, he won’t acknowledge my part in it._  He couldn’t say that. He was ashamed for thinking it.

Todd sneered. “That’s what I thought. You don’t want to help him, you want to help yourself. I’m all for fucking with the pretender, but this crosses the line.” He buffed his nails on his shirt. “Come back when you’re feeling less selfish, brat.”

Damian knew he was being dismissed. He was furious, but he knew not to act on the anger. Not know. He had someone else to keep in mind. “Thank you for your time,” he ground out, before immediately taking his leave.

 

——-

 

Damian wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to see Tim. He wanted to explain why he felt like he was missing something, even though he wasn’t sure how to put it into words.

Even though it was late, patrol over, he found himself back at Tim’s apartment. He’d come at night before, but only to glance at the windows, make sure they were still shut tight, and that nothing seemed amiss.

He doesn’t know how to approach, at this time of day. By all rights, Tim should be sleeping. If Damian broke in and that woke Tim, that might cause a panic. If he broke in and Tim  _didn’t_  wake up, that might cause a panic. He could go to a safehouse and quickly change into civilian attire and then knock on the front door, but that would mean waking Tim up if he was asleep, and still having to figure out what to say, if he wasn’t.

Damian was still debating what to do when his com crackled to life. “Hey Robin, the window to the apartment next door isn’t an easy break in, but you should be able to jimmy it.”

“What?”

The robotic voice continued, “You get into the apartment, the hall closet behind the jackets opens up into Red’s room. I deactivated the alarms and traps for you, but I’m putting them back up in five minutes. Your choice on what to do.”

“Who  _is_ this,” Damian demanded, even as he headed for the window. His mind was whirring, thinking of who would have this information and this ability, someone working for Ra’s, but why would they…then he paused. “…Oracle?”

The voice chuckled, a screech of feedback in his ear. “Quick to catch on, aren’t you.”

“But you  _left_ ,” Damian said, pulling out his lock picks. “How are you— _why_  are you—”

“I check back once in a while to see how the family’s doing,” she said. “And I care about the kid. This…wasn’t right.”

Damian bit his tongue on the blame. She’s helping now, which was what mattered. “No,” he said shortly. “It wasn’t.”

“So help. I’m leaving the video feeds up, but I’m turning off the audio just for you. And when you go, don’t leave through the dummy apartment. I’m reactivating everything the second you’re in.”

“Understood,” Damian said.

She closed the connection as Damian got the window open, and he was careful to follow the instructions. Getting to the hall closet, he pushed the jackets aside and found the dummy panel. Then it’s only a matter of quietly,  _quietly_  creeping into Tim’s room. It was only as he does this that he realized the decision to break in had been made for him.

Tim was indeed asleep in his bed, but it was a lax definition of sleep. The covers were pulled askew and Tim was clearly in the throes of a nightmare, hands clenched around the covers, his whole body tense. Damian had stripped off the top of his uniform instinctively and moved towards the bed before he even had a real thought about doing so.

He put a hand on Tim’s shoulder first, loathe to wake him, but even more unwilling for Tim to wake himself to an intruder in his bed. He shook him once, keeping contact after he does so.

Tim’s eyes snapped open, chest heaving, and Damian blocked the strike aimed at his throat with his other hand.

“Drake,” he said, “It’s me. Damian. We discussed Holden Caulfield again this afternoon. I still detest him.”

“Damian,” Tim said, tight lipped and still breathing hard. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“Many things,” Damian replied. “I am trying to fix them. Please let me in.”

“What?” Tim peered up at him, aware but obviously still confused with sleep. Damian used his free hand to grasp a corner of the covers.

“I want to sleep,” he said. “Let me in.”

Tim frowned as if he didn’t quite believe Damian’s words, but he silently moved over, giving Damian room to slide in next to him. Damian took a moment to arrange to covers around them and then lay down, wrapping an arm around Tim and pulling him close. Tim was stiff against him, but he did nothing to protest, and Damian could be content with that for now. He closed his eyes.

Forty minutes later he woke to the feel of Tim moving against him, curling up closer in his sleep.

Damian tucked Tim against his chest and breathed, feeling like things were going  _right_  for the first time in much too long.


	11. Chapter 11

Tim woke up feeling the best he’d felt since everything had started weeks ago. He didn’t hurt anymore and the shakiness was gone, but on top of that he felt  _rested_  like only several hours of  _good_  sleep could make one feel.

Which most likely had something to do with his current bedmate.

He was improving, then. Being held and not freaking out. Though it helped that by now he  _knew_  what being held by Damian felt like. At this point it meant safety and a semblance of comfort. Before, touch meant that he stopped feeling so miserable. Now, it…well. Now it meant mostly the same thing.

He let himself take a few more seconds before letting out a breath and opening his eyes. “Damian?”

“Yes?” Damian answered immediately, eyes still closed.

“…how long have you been awake?”

Damian shifted. “Mm, approximately twenty minutes.”

“ _What_?” Why didn’t you go?

Damian opened his eyes and looked at Tim. “I didn’t think it would be good to leave you to wake up alone, when you knew very well someone joined you at night.” He frowned. “Was I wrong?”

Tim shook his head. “No, no, that’s…fine. You were right; I’d probably have panicked to some extent, wondering if it had really been you.”

Damian nodded, satisfied. “Tt. That’s what I thought.”

They lapsed into silence. Damian didn’t seem very inclined to move without active prompting, and Tim really just wasn’t sure what to make of  _anything_ , right now. Eventually he remembered to have the sense to check the time. That, at least, had him bolting up, out of Damian’s arms.

“It’s seven forty-three!” he said, ignoring Damian’s growl and attempts to keep him still as Tim climbed over him and out of bed. “How did we sleep this late?” He rounded on Damian. “You’re late for school,” he accused.

Damian sat up, looking wholly unconcerned about this. “So I’ll miss another day.”

“Oh no, you’re not,” Tim said, as he rifled through his drawers. “You miss too many days, they’ll try to do something stupid like hold you back. Here.” He threw a shirt at Damian’s head. “This might fit you.”

“They’ll be hard pressed to hold me back when I’m getting near-perfect grades and have no other flaws on my record,” Daman replied, holding up the shirt. It was very old and very worn, and looked more like something to wear to sleep over for daily activities. It was also about two sizes too big for Tim. “Whose is this?”

“Dick’s,” Tim snapped. “And it’s either that or one of Kon’s old shirts. They’re the only things I have that would fit you. I’m not a prepped safehouse.” He went back into the depths of his wardrobe, muttering something about pants.

“Don’t bother,” Damian said. “I’m not going in. One more day won’t hurt.”

Tim threw up his hands. “Fine! But you still need clothes.” He glared at Damian until he put on the shirt. “I’ll have to run out to a safehouse and grab you something decent. Nothing I have would fit you.”

“That’s fine.”

“And  _you_  can explain to Bruce and Alfred why you’re missing school, because I’m sure as hell not going to be to the one to do it.”

“Also fine.

“Well. Well good.” Tim threw Damian one last look and headed to the bathroom, leaving Damian to his own devices.

Damian waited until he could hear water running, before toggling on his com, opening all channels. “Oracle?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the voice came, still as irritating as before. “Hang on.” There was a low buzz, and then she was back. “We’re on a private channel now. Spill.”

“There isn’t anything to spill,” Damian told her. “We slept. He needed it.”

“I did figure that out.” The voice sounded amused. “Seems like I missed a lot while I was gone.”

“I trust you know all the details of the situation, including how we kept Tim functional while an antidote was created.”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand what you did and did not  _miss_.”

Another electrical screech that was probably a laugh. “Have it your way. I called you in at your school, so you’ve got the day to work. Don’t waste it.”

“I don’t plan to,” Damian said.

“Good. Tell him I said hi.” The connection cut out. Just in time, as Damian could hear the water shut off. He took the com out of his ear and stared at it for a moment, trying not to think of how much her timing _wasn’t_  coincidence.

Tim emerged, hair wet, wearing a simple polo and jeans. He still looked disgruntled as he handed Damian a clean towel.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll go get you some clothes that actually  _fit_.

 

——-

 

Tim couldn’t really voice what it was that had him so riled up about Damian’s continued interaction with him. Truth be told, he didn’t dislike it at all; it was  _nice_  to have someone to talk to and spend time with on a day-to-day basis. He really hadn’t had that much, since going solo. Sure, he managed to spend some time with his friends once in a while, but they were all busy doing different things and living in different places. That was separate from having someone wanting to deal with him on a daily basis and actively  _seeking it out_.

It was just that the someone was also Damian. Which was very, very confusing.

He swung by a bakery on his way back to the apartment and got some stuff for breakfast, and tried to think about what the day would have in store. He still wasn’t back to working full time at the office, and was mostly taking advantage of that to clean up files and get some consulting work out of the way. He didn’t expect Damian to want much entertaining, but there wasn’t a whole lot for him to do on a school day, stuck in Tim’s apartment.

He was pulled from his thoughts when a hand came out of nowhere and pulled him into a nearby alley. Tim clutched the bags with the clothes and pastries and tried to keep from panicking. The guy was holding a knife to his stomach, the other arm wrapped around Tim’s chest.

“Drop the bag,” he said, “And get out your wallet.”

It wasn’t one of Ra’s’ men, not like this, in broad daylight, and certainly not from something so mundane as  _theft_. The knowledge calmed him down and got Tim thinking again.

“Really?” he said with disbelief. “You’re mugging me  _now_? It’s _morning_.” He paused. “Is this a dare?”

“Shut the fuck up!” his attacked hissed, jabbing the knife at Tim’s stomach. Tim could feel the arm holding him trembling. “I’ll gut you!”

“Right. And then run out, in broad daylight, into a busy street, covered in blood. That sounds like a good plan. No, really.”

“You little—!”

Tim never got to find out what exactly he was, because by then he had twisted out of the attacker’s grip and gotten a nerve strike to both his shoulders and his left leg. The guy collapsed heavily, yelling at Tim the whole time. Tim made a quick call, scribbled a note on the back of a random business card from his wallet, impaled the note on his would-be assailants knife, and headed back to his apartment.

Damian yanked the door open as Tim was unlocking it, took one look at Tim, and bodily pulled him inside.

“What happened?” Damian demanded. “You’re injured!”

Tim followed Damian’s gaze down to his stomach, to find that his shirt was torn and that he was indeed bleeding a little. “Some idiot tried to mug me,” he said walking to the kitchen to put the bakery bags down. “I guess his knife caught me. I’ll deal with it in a second.” He held out the other bag to Damian. “Here. Clothes for you that’ll actually fit properly.”

Damian glared at the bag and grabbed Tim’s wrist with his free had, tugging him towards the bathroom. “We need to disinfect and clean that cut. His knife was probably filthy. You do not want to risk infection.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I think I can handle it,” he said. “I’ll change and clean up. You get dressed. And help yourself to the stuff in the kitchen,” he called over his shoulder. “I bought some pastries and stuff too.”

To say that he was surprised when Damian ignored him and instead followed him to the bathroom would have been a lie. Just going on previous behaviors.

“I’m not helpless,” Tim said frustrated, as he blocked Damian’s path to the first-aid kit under the sink and got it out himself. “I  _can_  do this on my own.”

Damian crossed his arms. “Just because I want to care for you does not mean that I believe you helpless,” he snapped. “Why won’t you accept that I just want to  _be_  here?”

“Because you’d be the first!” A minute pause, then, quieter, “Well, second. But I don’t think he counts.”

“Ra’s most certainly does  _not_ ,” Damian snarled.

Tim’s lips twitched. “I was talking about Alfred.”

“Oh.” Damian couldn’t think of a reply to that. Tim sighed and held out the kit.

“Here,” he said. “Not that it’s a big deal.” He lifted his shirt to give Damian better access to the cut, and stood quietly while Damian took out an antiseptic wipe.

Damian placed one hand on Tim’s hip, and used the other to carefully wipe up the blood from the cut and clean the area around it thoroughly. Tim’s stomach muscles fluttered at his touch, and Damian found himself taking more time than necessary with the cloth, letting his fingers drag over Tim’s skin.

“That’s probably good, I think,” Tim murmured, after several long moments.

Damian swallowed and nodded quietly, not wanting to speak and ruin something that felt so…intimate. Instead he picked up the bandage and tore off the paper wrapping, pressing it over the gash and using both hands to lightly smooth it down. He did this one, twice, three times, before just letting his hands move more, sliding them up farther, underneath the shirt, one curling around Tim’s waist, the other reaching up to Tim’s chest to cover the hand that Tim had been using to hold the shirt up out of the way.

Tim was breathing shallowly, his eyes open and piercing, a frenzy of mixed emotions. He was holding himself completely still, as if waiting to see what Damian would do next.

Damian leaned in slowly, as slowly as he could make himself, for if Tim wanted to pull away Damian would  _let_   _him,_ regardless of his bitter disappointment.

He pressed a soft kiss to Tim’s mouth, anxious, hoping,  _let this be all right,_ and when he felt Tim’s other hand curl against Damian’s own neck, it was everything he had realized he wanted.

Tim broke the kiss and pulled back, just a little. Licked his swollen lips while Damian’s heart pounded. Smiled, small, but real as Damian’s heart leapt.

“This is going to be weird,” Tim murmured.

“I find that I don’t care.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, “I think I’m past caring about that too.” He sighed and rested his forehead against Damian’s chest for a moment before pulling back completely.

“Breakfast,” he said, turning toward the door. “Come on.” And, over his shoulder, “You’re not skipping school again.”

Damian ran his fingers down Tim’s arm as they entered the kitchen together. “We’ll see.”

Tim gave him a Look, but started to remove pastries from the bakery bag in lieu of replying. “What do you want?” he asked, setting down plates.

Damian shrugged and went to put on the teakettle. “By now, I trust that you know my tastes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Non-con is fairly non-explicit between Tim and Ra's. Tim is drugged during the interactions.


End file.
